


Junkyard Batman

by WGalaini



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Alternate Universe, Batman - Freeform, Elseworlds, Gen, Mystery, Romance, Thriller, With A Twist, dcu - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:40:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 38,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26632261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WGalaini/pseuds/WGalaini
Summary: It always bugged me that Batman was wealthy. What if he wasn't? What if he inherited the Wayne Junkyard at the south end of Gotham? And what if his enemies were meth dealers like the infamous Joker? What if Riddler was an internet troll cultivating conspiracy theories? I took away his whiteness and his resources to find the core of Batman.I took the scale of Batman DOWN in order to raise the personal stakes.The whole thing is here. Enjoy!
Relationships: Selina Kyle/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 12
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

I was eleven, and even then I was starting to see the man I was growing into. I was a weed, my pants too short and my sneakers too tight. Though I hadn’t grown any facial hair like I was desperate to, I still had the eyes of an adult. Through the mirror, I could see maturity there. Harsh maturity.

It was the first year anniversary of losing Mom and Dad. I was supposed to be asleep, but I snuck out of the master bedroom of the empty family trailer to spy on Al and Uncle Lu.

At night they always shared a beer and chatted about the new junk in the yard, or even shared salacious stories of their youth. But tonight I heard nothing. No chatter. No jokes. It worried me, so I snuck out of bed and peeked through the yellowing plastic blinds to see them sitting in miss-matched lawn chairs, an industrial spool between them serving as a table.

After a few moments, Al broke the silence.

“Chill got away with it, then. That what yer sayin?”

Uncle Lu took a long swig from his beer. He preferred fancier stuff, beer from Europe, whereas Al drank the cheapest thing he could find.

But Uncle Lu didn’t answer. He just stared out into the yard, surveying our Wayne Junk’s trove of piled cars, gutted refrigerators, bent bed frames, and old computers. Our junkyard kingdom spans eighteen acres at the south end of Gotham, on the outskirts. And one year ago our kingdom had lost our king and queen.

And here I was, the scrawny prince, unable to sleep in the massive bed his parents left cold.

Taking a final, aggressive swig of his beer, Uncle Lu politely suppressed a burp and said “Yes and no. He’s detained, but because of the meth he was on and whatnot, he won’t get life. And he got moved to a facility for addiction, not actual prison.”

I could hear the sorrow in Uncle Lu’s voice. His sister, my mother, had been dear to him. When he heard the news, he left his teaching job in London and moved out here to look after me. He wanted to buy a home, but since the junkyard was the only means of income, he stayed here. Besides, the Waynes could never sell Wayne Junk. Al’s lived here through three owners prior. It would have been wrong to make Al suffer a fourth.

“That good enough for yeh?” Al asked pointedly.

Folding his hands, Uncle Lu stared into his lap. “You know it isn’t. But he’s off the street. And Bruce is my priority.”

“Our priority,” Al injected. “Watched him grow. Want to see that done right.” He finished the cheap beer and crushed the can in his hand. “Hate that they blamed the drugs Chill was on an’ not the mind steering them into his veins…”

I was almost eleven, damnit. I should be a part of this conversation.

Banging through the screen door, I stomped down the wooden steps. Barefoot, I stood in the gravel and faced them.

Al snickered as Uncle Lu stood to usher me back inside. “School tomorrow, Bruce. Your last day of in-school suspension. You’ve got to stay awake.”

“I’ve got to do something,” I said, holding my ground. I likely appeared absurd in my racecar pajamas that barely fit. “I’ve got to stop drugs. Stop murder. Stop the hurt!” My eyes were blurring now. Yet again, I was going to cry. As always.

And as usual, Uncle Lu reached to hold me.

I shrugged him away.

“I need to do something!” I shouted.

“You did so much already, Bruce,” Uncle Lu consoled me. “You took the witness stand, pointed him out, you did everything that could be asked.”

“But what about what isn’t asked?” I snapped. “What about justice? Real justice?”

“You’re far too hot-headed for doling out justice, Bruce. I mean, this is your third suspension for fighting in the school year. And you had always been a fighter, even before all of this happened. That isn’t the temperament for-”

“It’s not fair!” I yelled. This recent suspension wasn’t even my fault! He was a bully, and he was pushing around a smaller kid. A broken nose was warranted.

Through my blurry eyes I spied the grin on Al’s face. “Boy’s always been a scrapper.” He tipped his beer can toward me, and drank a toast in my honor.

“Al, please,” Uncle Lu admonished. Turning back to me, he continued. “A fighter is fine in the ring, but he needs control, discipline, and most of all compassion. A compassionate fighter makes the hard choice of when not to swing his fist. Have you shown that wisdom? Hm?” His eyebrows raised high into his forehead.

Just like Mom’s.

But I was dead-set.

“Uncle Lucius, I’m going to make the world better. My way. And I want you there to help. Both of you. I need you. But this is happening. I’m going to find the people who hurt others. I’m going to find the drugs and burn them, the bullies and beat them, and the murders and catch them.”

With a defeated sigh, Uncle Lu straightened. “Then be a police officer, Bruce.”

Al sneered. “In this town? A cop? He’s half-black, so they’ll give em shit and keep em at the bottom forever.” His bright blue eyes burned with sudden anger. “Trust the same people that let Chill stay in a comfy hospital for what he done?”

“Alfred!” Uncle Lu roared.

But Al darted to his feet. For an old geezer, he was still spry when fury took him. Nose to nose, he snarled at Uncle Lu. “This ain’t England. You notice people treatin’ yeh different for being dark, yet? Eh Lu? Only reason the Wayne double-homicide made the news was cause one was a white man.”

That stung Uncle Lu. The realization that a black woman being shot at the concession stand of a drive-in theater only mattered if the man dying next to her was white.

I saw his hurt. So I reached out and held Uncle Lu’s hand.

Both men simmered down, suddenly aware that their own grief had interrupted mine.

“I mean it.” I felt my throat closing. I struggled to speak, pushing through the threatening sobs. “I’m going to fight. I’m going to make a difference. And you both will help me.”

And I remember that vividly. Because here I am, ten years later, gearing up for the first night of many. Al helped me fix up and armor an old tow truck from the fifties, and Uncle Lu helped me choose a target: an isolated field of meth-producing trailers two hours south of Gotham. It’s run by a crazy guy calling himself ‘Joker.’ I’ll strike in the middle of the night with bombs we rigged from propane tanks and set the whole place ablaze.

Slipping on my armor, Uncle Lu reviews my strategy with me. He saves the most important bit for last.

“Nobody dies. Make sure of it. Nobody dies.”

I nod, committing to the promise.

******************************************************************

It’s already dark as I roll out of the yard. The reinforced windows in the tow truck can’t roll down, so I flicker the headlights in departure.

I know Al and Uncle Lu are both worried, even if they show it differently. Al was cracking crude jokes while helping me dress, and Uncle Lu was triple-checking everything with quivering hands. Both good men. Fathers to me. I’m pretty sure neither of them wanted me to do this, but I was hellbent. So they made sure that I at least was doing it right.

Saddled into the driver’s seat of my truck, I realize how uncomfortable the padding of this armor really is. I can take a bullet to the chest or back, but my arms and legs are vulnerable. Al had built it from his old army gear and some riot stuff from the pawnshop. We painted it all black, and of course there is the helmet. For the helmet, we took an old hockey helmet and trimmed it a bit. Then I fixed the flipping welding shield to the front of it. The pointed ears at the top was my personal touch. I wanted to look like a bat.

I know, it sounds absurd, but hear me out. I used to be scared of the dark as a kid. One night Mom was tucking me in, trying to get me to sleep with the light off like a big boy, and she told me ‘everyone is afraid of the dark.’ I protested, claiming that bats aren’t. They love the dark.

She laughed. Mom’s hearty, lovely laugh. After that day I always liked bats. They did two things that impressed me: they traveled in the dark without fear and they made my Mom laugh.  
So Batman it is. Batman I am.

In my… Bat-truck? Batmobile? I’ll work on it.

I tuck in for a long haul. Once clear of Gotham’s south end, civilization drops off pretty quickly. The suburbs are to the north of the city, where families and people with better jobs live. To the south, down here, it just bleeds from industrial zone to open, flat road. Occasionally you’ll see a trailer home here, or a vacant gas station there, but overall this part of the state is a lot of nothing.

Which turned out to be a perfect place for this Joker to set up a meth complex. Once Covid closed the border with Mexico, hauling meth in became too difficult to be profitable so its rate of import dropped off. Smaller, independent outfits like Joker’s popped up all throughout the midwest. They cook it in vats like witch’s cauldrons, bake it, powder it up, and put it into little capsules.

Apparently Joker has his own recipe that gets people giggly. The local Gotham news had a number of crazies laughing as they charged cops or jumped off of buildings expecting to fly.

To learn more, I went into the city some nights to buy bags of it. Lucius wanted samples to tinker with in the lab. See if he could figure where it was coming from.

While ‘shopping’ for meth I pulled several sellers into simple conversation. I can be nice. Disarming, despite my size. Some guys told me it comes from the south. I even asked one ‘do you feel bad selling people this stuff?’

He told me that it was on me that I was doing it, not him. It was my option to do it.

So here I am, in the Batmobile, driving south to take that option off the table for people. But I’m not going unprepared. We scouted the whole area, first. I got a used drone off of ebay with what leftover money my parents had saved for my eventual college. It flew well and we went out at night. There was a whole lot of nothing, but soon we saw a trailer park, shaped in a circle like wagons defending from an Indian attack. Most of their roofs were gone and inside they were lit with blacklight, cooking and baking away.

Joker is so bold. Anyone flying over in a small plane would see it.

After several weeks of scouting, we came to the conclusion that the meth compound cleared out at night. Everyone piled into their cars and drove off in separate directions.

Which is good, because I’m not going there to fight. I’m just going there to shut it down. Buy people on the streets some time.

The plan is simple, yet dramatic. I’ve got eight propane tanks rattling in a sluice on the back of the truck. As I drive around the compound, I’ll hit a toggle I wired into the dash and drop them one at a time by the trailers. The timers on them will have to be manually set prior, which is easy, but still once I drop them there is no going back.

Homemade plastic explosives were fairly easy to make. I soaked it in several tubs I dragged out of the yard, but the wiring took some time. Each tank has a cheap digital watch, none of them matching since I got them out from under car seats and dashboards. Forgotten items from junked cars.

Eight rattling bombs of propane. The route I planned kept me away from street lights and highways. I don’t think a highway patrolman would think well of walking up to my tow truck, black propane tanks stacked in the back like depth charges, asking for my registration.

I kind of wish I had kept the radio in the truck. This is a boring ride. Maybe I should install a police scanner, if I can. For future operations.

But the dark, lonely ride there gives me plenty of time to rethink this. To talk myself out of it. Am I really doing this? Am I really going to blow apart a massive meth lab? Make a lot of bad people angry?

Hell yes, I am. Mom wouldn’t like it, and Dad probably wouldn’t, either. They were smart and kept their heads down of trouble, but that certainly didn’t spare them now did it? I hope they’d at least understand. When I hit twenty, I realized that this and all my plans weren't for them. It was unfair to shove any responsibility for my actions or desires onto two people who had departed this Earth. Two gentle people.

No, this is for me.

I relish tomorrow’s news, whatever anchor gets there first, to report on the smoldering crater of meth central. “Justice was done tonight” they’ll say. “Kids and families are a bit safer.”

******************************************************************

I’m here. At least, my map says I am. I didn’t use a phone or any kind of GPS because I don’t want my location tracked via tower. But I’m pretty sure I’m two miles north of the compound. There is a ridge keeping me out of sight and I toggled the truck’s headlamps to the red bulbs a few miles out. Just in case anyone was late in leaving, I didn’t want them to see me coming.

The clock in the dash reads two-thirty am. Every time I scouted with the drone, they were gone by now. This is good.

Swinging the armored door open, I slide out of the driver’s seat with a groaning stretch. My joints pop as I arrange my armor. I should figure out a way to slip it on after driving on the road next time because my back is soaked with sweat. That’s my punishment for picking a Mac tow truck from the 50’s to refurbish into the Batmobile. No air conditioning.

I take stock of the propane bombs. One has a Hello Kitty watch. It’s my favorite, so I activate the timer on it first. They each chirp awake from my touch. Running down the line, I set each tank for twelve minutes. There is no going back, now. Well, actually, I could just pull the red wire clear of the plastique to kill the detonator. But I’m committed.

Let’s do this.

Climbing back into the Batmobile, I slide my helmet on. Pulling the welding shield down, my ears nearly touch the ceiling of the cab. I do this in case there are cameras, but I also do this because I want to. I went through all this trouble to make this cool helmet, afterall. But I can still see and drive well enough.

Pressing the gas, I slowly rumble down the road and into the dirt turnoff. Rolling along with the headlights off, I enter the ring of trailers. Generators rumble next to each one with spare barrels of fuel nearby. I see no cars and no people.

This is good. Things are going well.

Flipping the toggle, I drop the first bomb. It rolls away slowly, disappearing in the red of my tail lights as I proceed to drop more bombs. I’ve got five on the ground and eight minutes on the clock.

But when I go to drop the sixth, I see a long shadow move.

I hit the breaks. Desperately hoping it is a racoon or a cat, I frantically scan through the passenger side window, trying to find a source.

And I do. God help me, I do.

The trailer with a roof is more than what it seems from the air. The drone couldn’t see that it was a cover for a stairwell leading underground out of sight. But I sure can, and the guy who came up for a smoke break can see me.

I stare at him through my mask. He’s clearly unnerved, cigarette dangling from his lip as its dim light reflects off of the trash bags he is wearing. A poor man’s hazmat gear, taped together.

He shouts something down the stairs.

I’m now achieving new levels of sweat unbeknownst to mankind. My heart is fluttering as a cold river runs down my back. How many people are down there? Will my bombs cause a cave in, killing dozens? What do I do? The clock is literally ticking!

Two more trash-bag men climb up the stairs. They all point at the Batmobile and the idiot inside it.

Then a fourth guy comes up. I know exactly who he is when I see him. He’s shirtless with obnoxious tattoos on every inch of his starved, sinewy body. His hair is lime green and across his mouth is a tattooed red pair of lips like a clown. Pushing through his boys, his wiry body stalks toward me with an orange and yellow Nerf gun dangling from his hand.

He smiles. And his teeth are gold, flashing like bloody copper in my red running lights.

I have to tell him. I have to tell him or everyone will die.

“Nobody dies,” Uncle Lu had demanded. And I promised.

I can’t roll down the windows and shout to him, because they are bullet-proof plexiglass. I have no speaker or bullhorn, either.

So much for being prepared.

I set the truck in neutral. I can’t believe I’m getting out, but I am. Walking around the Batmobile, I run my hand along the front as if touching it will bring some sort of protection.

I decide to be assertive. With a gloved hand, I point hard at Joker and stomp forward to meet him.

“You!” I yell as loud as I can, the mask muffling me. “Joker!”

He giggles at his moniker. As I get closer, I see that even his eyeballs are tattooed red. Who does that?

“Eeeeya boy… what da fuck are you?” He’s legitimately amused to see me. I don’t scare him in the least.

“Bombs!” I yell. “I dropped bombs!” I point to the three remaining on my truck “We have to disarm them. Fast! Here-” I spin around and grip the nearest one on the truck. Rotating it, I tug the red wire free and it goes dead.

Looking back at him, I realize he wasn’t paying attention. He just keeps eyeing me up and down like a snack. It’s creepy.

“Hey!” I yell again. “Jackass! Look, the red wire here. See? See?” I’m talking to him like the buffoon he is. This is making me furious that I have to save this asshole’s life, now.

Turning to show him yet again how to disarm them, something hits me in the back of the head. Hard. My bell is ringing and I stumble against the truck. It takes a moment to process, but he shot me. He shot me! Right in the back of the head! The helmet took it, but still.

I spin around, not sure what to do and he shoots me again right in the faceplate. That’s not a Nerf gun but a real gun painted to look like one.

He’s all smiles as his three boys run back down below.

Enraged, I hoist the disarmed bomb from my truck and hurl it at him. The thing is heavy, but I’ve been lifting weights my entire life. It arcs in the air and cracks into his knee.

Joker winces, clutching his leg, and accidentally fires off a round into the dirt.

I bull rush him. All of me into all of him. It’s like tackling a string bean and we tumble into the ground. Hammering his face twice with my faceplate, the pistol loosens from his grip. I drive my knee into his midsection, right into his pelvis, repeatedly. I finally feel something crack, like a twig in a bag of wet leaves.

He’s howling in pain, but huffing in joy at the same time. What the hell?

“Stawp! Stawp!” A woman screams. Running from the stairwell comes this pregnant, barefoot young thing with white makeup on and pigtails. She’s got two giant red tattooed dots on her face, one on each cheek, like a doll. The three trash-bag-boys are following her, sporting firearms.

It’s a meth carnival. I’m in the meth circus, and yet I somehow feel like the clown. I’m the thing everyone is pointing at and laughing at.

The pregnant woman shoves me away from Joker with surprising strength.

“Jay? Jay?” She sobs, cradling his head.

My god, he’s the dad.

I’m standing there, like a monolith, over this twisted little family. Is this how Chill felt? When he stood over Mom and Dad? As he destroyed my family?  
The bombs.

I spin around, taking stock of where I dropped each one. Then I run back to my truck and unplug the last two.

“Kill this mother fucker!” the woman snarls from behind me.

They open fire.

Diving into the back of the tow truck, it tinks with bullets as they land. I know one had a sawed off shotgun, so I wait for both those shots to be spent before rolling out the far side.

As I do so, something ethereal punches me in the back of my left shoulder. I’m pretty sure the armor took it all.

Hitting the dirt, I scramble to the front of my truck and open the driver’s-side door and climb in. And one of the trash-bag-boys decided to do the same through the passenger side door. So now I’m sitting next to one of these guys and as he levels his tricked out machine gun pistol at me, I shift the truck in reverse and floor it. I could have gone forward, but reverse has more torque and just seemed like it would jerk him around more.

And oh boy, it does. He slides out of the seat, machine pistol unloading its magazine in a single violent burp. Hot lead bounces everywhere, trapped by the bulletproof windshield.

Okay, I’m deaf now. I’m a terrible bat.

As we’re peeling backward we smash into one of the vacant trailers and it just folds in half under the power of the Batmobile’s engine. At least I did something right when I built this thing.

I grab my intruder, but still I’m pressing the gas in reverse as I hammer his head into the wood dash repeatedly.

The glove box pops open as if offering to help. “Let me eat him!” the Batmobile says. Heh.

Unable to reload his gun quick enough, trash-bag-boy realizes he is trapped in the cab of a rolling tank with a very pissed off dude weighing over two hundred and forty pounds. He’s now begging for his life. Truly terrified.

“Get out! And run!” I roar, shoving him out the other side. Reaching over, I slam the door shut behind him and lock it. Like I should have in the first place.

Bullets are knicking against the front and windshield from the other two baggers and the crazy pregnant woman. She’s got the nerf pistol in both hands, drilling away at me.

The clock says four minutes until the first bomb goes off. Right now I’m well far enough away, but the clowns and the trash bags are still within the circle of trailers in the kill zone. I could drive to each bomb, use the truck to block their fire, and yank the red wires. But that means getting in and out repeatedly, which I don’t like.

And I’m starting to realize something is wrong with my shoulder. It hurts, and my left hand is quivering.

So I do the only other thing I can think of. I’m going to chase these guys off.

Blaring the horn, I shift into gear and roar forward. The Batmobile’s engine can be heard for miles and it charges.

The bag-boys get the picture immediately. They bolt, but for the stairs, so I head them off. Gunning it, I get to the stairs before they do and with the speed I’m going I plow into the facsimile trailer, crashing right through it and jumping over the stairwell. The whole thing comes down behind me, blocking their retreat.

They are in the open now, with me. Nowhere to go but run.

Shifting into reverse, I tear the truck around. Hitting the lights, I have them locked into my beams like deer. The pregnant one screeches for the two minions to carry her baby-daddy as I rev the engine. She’s smart enough to know climbing into one of the trailers is a waste of time after how the Batmobile just ate two.

So she does the next best thing: she runs. Backwards, no less, with her pistol trained on me. Her boys are hauling the limp noodle of their leader.

I flash the lights at her, driving the message home. Scram. Lurking forward, I give equal chase to their flight, keeping them in my headlights, as we clear the trailer circle. She knows she is at my mercy.

Mercy. Just as I ponder the word, the first bomb goes off behind me. Rapidly followed by four others. Looking through the back window, the entire trailer park detonates in a smoky haze of ash and severed electrical cables. Debris rains down on the hood and the trash-bag-boys stare in surprise. But not the expecting mother. She knew what was what.

We glare at each other, me in the driver’s seat and her in my headlights.

This ain’t over, although Joker’s meth production sure is.

I wish for a calling card. A final gesture of supremacy. Should I peek my head out and tell her I’m the Batman?

No. My shoulder hurts too much. I’ve got a two hour drive ahead of me, and the adrenaline will wear off before then. I’ll have to struggle to stay awake.

I shift into reverse and drive around the burning crater to the dirt road, leading away.

Kinda wish I had the radio working.


	2. Chapter 2

Apparently I passed out on the side of the road. I had managed to pull over, but I don’t remember it. I sat there idling in the Batmobile well after sunrise before Al finally found me in. After checking my vitals, he used the official Wayne tow truck to haul me in.

After I wake, I tell them both about everything that occurred. Every embarrassing detail.

As Uncle Lu stitches me up, he chastises me.

“I told you this was a bad idea,” he says. “You promised no one was to die. That includes you.”

As worried as Uncle Lu is, Al seems delighted. “Armor worked,” he grunts, rapping a knuckle against my faceplate. “Dug three slugs out of the back panel of yer kevlar. Might need a replacement.”

“We can’t afford a replacement,” I reply through my teeth. Uncle Lu isn’t being as gentle with the stitches as I’d like. “Just move the front panel to the back.”

Al laughs. “Rob Peter to pay Paul, eh?”

“Peter won’t mind,” I grunt.

“Everyone aims center mass, boy…” now Al is chastising me. “Yeh don’t go out again until we have yeh padded front an back.”

Honestly, that suits me fine. I’m still rattled from being shot. The same thing that took Mom and Dad almost sent me to join them.

But on reflection, I’m more angry than scared that they shot at me. I’m furious even. With a dark joy, I remember cracking that nut job’s body under that propane bomb.

“Anyone die?” Al asks casually.

Uncle Lu sighs. “Police scanner reported the explosion, but no fatalities. We’ll wait for more on the local news tonight.”

I look to Uncle Lu, firmly eye-to-eye. “Nobody died last tonight,” I said. “I made sure of that.”

He smiles at me sadly. “If I hadn’t made you promise, you wouldn’t have gotten hurt.”

“If you hadn’t made me promise, a pregnant woman and the father would be dead. But no more explosives. No more bombs. Too much can go wrong.”

Al and Uncle Lu nod in agreement.

******************************************************************

I’m in the recliner, my dad’s old one, when the news comes on. I’ve got a bowl of cereal in my lap; the usual dinner-chaser for me.

If food ever wanted to be safe it wouldn’t sit still around me, let me tell you.

So the final story that Gotham 5 keeps hinting at is the explosion south of the city. A pretty news reporter, a blonde bombshell named Vicki Vale, is interviewing a member of the city council. He got elected recently, so I haven’t learned his name. And I can’t pronounce it despite it being spelled out for me at the bottom of the screen.

“What do you think caused this explosion? Some rumours are that it was a drug production center or a militia camp for domestic terrorists that-”

The councilman, a handsome man with a sharp goatee, raises a gentle palm to stop her. He has kind eyes and his demeanor treads the line between ‘aloof’ and ‘charming.’

“Ms. Vale, I’d like to assure everyone that this was not an act of terrorism of any kind. It appears to be an accident revolving around improper storage of propane. Fortunately, no one was seriously harmed and the fire chief is on the scene to evaluate.” Looking at me through the camera, he continues. “I’d like to remind the people of Gotham and in the counties beyond to please be mindful when handling dangerous substances. Follow proper guidelines.”

I learn two things from this. Number one, Vicki Vale is single. No ring and he called her ‘miss.’ Number two, why isn’t the mayor on tv? Both aside, this councilman is either not in the know or he is and he is trying to keep people from freaking out over a meth factory in their backyard.

I spoon another mouthful of cereal in. “I broke Joker’s… something. Something in his midsection gave,” I announced through the side of my mouth that isn’t bulging with soggy flakes. “I’d call that ‘seriously harmed’ for sure.”

Vicki thanks the councilman and the report switches to her voiceover. “But county Sheriff Gordon has other thoughts on the matter. We spoke to him earlier this morning.”

The news cuts to daytime, the smoldering wreckage of my work in wide-angle display. Skeletal ribs of trailers poke up skyward. The entire underground complex had collapsed from the explosions, burying everything.

“Damn, boy…” Al whistles.

Uncle Lu nods. “Right. No more bombs. Ever.”

The news camera zooms in on weathered man, almost as crusty as Al. It’s the sheriff, kicking his boot around the debris with a big iron on his hip. His eyebrows are in bushy competition with his mustache and when he sees Vicki approaching, he hides his annoyance poorly.

“What can you tell us about what happened here, Sheriff Gordon?” she asks, tilting the microphone to him.

“Nothing,” he says without affect.

“Wasn’t this place producing drugs? A distribution center for meth and other narcotics?”

He looks about with keen eyes. He is trying to show disinterest, but he can’t hide some level of amusement. “I certainly hope so.” And with that he wanders off.  
I like him.

At some point I fall asleep in the chair. Someone must have picked up the cereal bowl off my stomach and put a blanket over me.

*************************************************************

After laying low for a few days, we pull the Batmobile out of the garage and into the carport to work on it. The thick layer of metal that Al and I welded on caught a couple of bullets for us to dig out, and I buff out a couple scratches. Johnny Cash blazes about rusty cages on the radio as Al sings along.

Say what you will about Al, but he has a nice singing voice. Hand to god. You should hear him on a proper banjo when he is in a bluegrass mood. It is haunting. I used to sit in bed and smile just listening to him outside in a lawn chair.

That was a lie. I still do.

We break for sandwiches with Uncle Lu in the office. It has been a slow day for him with only a few people coming by to dig out carburetors and airbags. Noshing our way through a bag of BBQ chips, we chase everything with a beer.

I’ve yet to find a beer I like but I’m a man, damnit, and I shall suffer beer until I enjoy it.

“Could get a new plate at the store,” Al mumbles through a mouthful of sandwich.

“We got the money for that?” I ask. “We had a slow month.”

Uncle Lu nods. “The freezer is full and we’re caught up on taxes. If you can find one cheap, sure. It would be worth it.”

“I’m okay with having a plate in the back and not the front,” I offer.

“But we are not,” Uncle Lu says with finality.

After eating, Al and I pile into his station wagon and head into Gotham. The industrial areas are littered with railcars and rusty water towers. We go by the power station and the water treatment plant. I see the same logo for the utility company everywhere. Penguin PLW.

This gets me thinking about branding. When you see that logo, you think ‘power, light, and water’ like their jingle says on the radio. So I need a logo. I want people to see it and know ‘Batman.’ But no jingle. Because I don’t drive an ice cream truck.  
Dangit. Now I want ice cream.

We get to the store. It’s still on the south side of Gotham, in a rougher part of town with weeds cracking the sidewalks and out-of-style graffiti no one bothered to clean or tag over. Everything is chain link fence and street basketball.

Mom and Dad used to drive me up here to play in the open fire hydrants during the hot summers. All the neighborhood kids played baseball or soccer in the street and people rolled out rusty grills and coolers of beer.

I’m a bit sad, thinking of happier days, when the store owner buzzes us in through the security door. He’s a friend of Al’s and they share a casual nod before catching up on a lot of nothing.

Poking around, I dig through piles of alice gear like dry bowls of noodles. He’s also got a case of novelty knives, hatchets, and World War II memorabilia, too. But there isn’t much here that appeals to me since most of it caters to man-children playing militia dress-up.

That’s when I spy it. A ballistic shield, the kind swat teams use to deflect bullets and weapons fire. It’s lightweight, and as big as a car door with a bullet-proof window in it. Clearly it has seen some action from the scorch marks and bullet nicks.  
Just like me.

“How much for the shield?” I ask on impulse.

Al and the owner look over. “A grand,” the owner says, before returning to his conversation.

But the shield holds Al’s attention for a bit.

“We’ll take it,” he says without negotiating.

“No, no we won’t,” I say, stepped up to the counter. “Al, we can’t-”

Al shoots me a look. He’s never, ever raised a hand to me or even threatened to do so. It’s not because he is a gentle man, but he’s just never had to. Because when he shoots me ‘that look’ my survival instinct kicks in and I shut the hell right up.

“You got a grand?” the owner asks. “Cash?”

Al shakes his head. “I’ll put up the Deering.”

“The five string?”

I finally figure out what is going on. Al is pawning his prize banjo.

“No,” I step forward, nudging myself into the men’s space. These men passively intimidate me, but if you put them both in a blender I’m still bigger. “That banjo goes nowhere. I put up something else. Come by the yard and pick out some radio equipment from the older cars. Good Chevy stuff.”

The owner is unimpressed.

“Boy…” Al is almost at a loss from my gumption. He looks ready to bop me. “It’s my Deerling. Yeh telling me what to do with my Deerling?”

“Yes.”

The owner howls with delight. “That is worth it. Yep. All right, kid. I’ll come by the yard and pick some stuff out. That’s a deal. Banjo is a hard sell unless I do it online, anyhow.”

Al is unhappy, but I can see the tension ease from his body.

The door chime rings. Craning his neck around us, the owner squints. “Hey, ease off, boys. Let me deal with this one.”

Al and I subtly wander off in different directions and a girl approaches the counter. She’s as old as me, a bit north of drinking age. Her jeans are loose but not baggy, she’s got on stomping boots, and her black hoodie has little cat ears. It’s cute.

She takes in the store quickly, her dark eyes darting about taking note of Al and me. My god, she is smoking hot with dark eyebrows and hooped silver earrings. Something familiar strikes me about her, but it could just be my hormones feeding false information to my brain.

Anyhow, I can’t take my eyes off her.

Slinking directly to the counter, she unloads the central pocket of her pullover hoodie. Pearls, a few watches, and a fancy pen tumble out onto the owner’s counter.

Without a word, he looks everything over. Fitting a loupe into his eye like a monocle, he spends extra time on the pearls. With a nod, he dips under the counter and brings up a lockbox. Counting cash, he plucks out several bills and presents them to her.

She doesn’t twitch.

He huffs. And ads a bill. Then another. When he reaches for the third bill, she stops him, pushing it back.

Ha! She just wanted to see how far she could push him. And she didn’t even take the last bill. Maybe this is how she retains buyers for her goods. Which, I strongly suspect, are stolen.

This makes me wonder what kind of person is Batman? Does Batman fight violent crime, or crime in general? I’m not a cop, nor do I want to be, given how much bullshit is piled onto them from all sides. But if I’m to make the world better am I to chase down thieves trying to make ends meet? How much better would her world be if I took her source of income away from her and got her arrested?

Nah, Batman might be a bomber who terrorizes pregnant women out of his own incompetence… but he isn’t an asshole. She’s broke like me. I wouldn’t be her enemy.

But oh man… I wouldn’t mind chasing her. Let me tell you.

Crumpling the cash into her hoodie, she spins and darts out of the store. I try to catch her eye, hoping upon hope that she likes the slab of beef hiding behind a hat rack gawking at her. She doesn’t notice me at all, and heads out the door.

But in the reflection of the glass, as she exits, her eyes pierce me.

Daaaaaaammn.

I want to ask the pawn shop owner about her, but Al speaks first.

“Yeh’d trade my Deerling for her number.”

I’m blushing like a fire engine caught naked in church.

The owner puts away his new catch of jewelry. “Don’t mess with Selina. She’ll eat your face.”

Honestly, I’d be down for that.

We take the shield and the owner promises to come by next week to pick out a fair trade with Uncle Lucius. Tossing the ballistic treasure into the back of the station wagon, Al thumps my good shoulder.

“Just cause yeh got shot for the first time doesn’t mean yeh get to be the man of the yard,” he says. He isn’t as angry as he is trying to appear.

“Not the first time I was shot,” I say. “Third grade. Airsoft rifle. I am hardened.”

He cracks a smile. “Yeah, just like when that girlie walked in.”

*************************************************************

The blood from my parents pools on the grimey tile between them, conjoining into a reflective red mirror. As it expands, it channels into the grooves of the grout, forming a square-pattern of canals.

This is the image that is burned into my head. It arrives at a full roar in that place between ‘asleep’ and ‘awake’ just in time to jerk me from rest.

I sit up, in my parent’s bed. The same bed. A queen-sized bed in the master bedroom of our trailer home. When I lost them, I slept in it because I could still smell them on the pillows. Smell their hair. Dad’s cologne and Mom’s conditioner.

And I never left. This somehow became my bed, like the Wayne Junkyard is mine, now. At least in name. Uncle Lucius runs everything because I doubt he could tolerate not running it. The man needs to keep mentally busy. Engaged.

But sometimes, when I’m alone and without something in my hands to tinker with or weld, I realize just how stunted I am. Home schooled after that night, raised by Uncle Lu and Al, and no trade school or higher education. I’ve got no future but this junkyard without the Batman.

That weakness in my heart burns away when I think of it. Of being Batman. I destroyed a meth factory. A secret underground meth factory. How cool is that? I was shot and attacked. I lived, and most powerful of all I did it without anyone dying.

If Chill had been more powerful, he could have robbed my parents of their phones and cash without shooting them. A weak man needs a gun. Chill’s weakness killed my parents.

I won’t be weak like Chill. No one dies.

I think about Mom and Dad, their blood seeping into the grout, pooling into a tiny puddle between them. Together to the end, even by violence.

Yeah, no sleep tonight.

I get up, sniff a pair of jeans that I can tolerate, and leave the trailer. The lawn chairs and spool table still smell of Al’s nightly cigarette. It calms me, knowing that he is off in his own trailer on the edge of the yard, sleeping.

Wandering for a few minutes, I arrive where we organize the appliances. I find a few old AC units and yank out several capacitors. They don’t resell for anything, but they do hold a decent charge and they are hardy enough to take a beating. Bet I could rig them together for some kind of taser system. Maybe electrify a chain from the Batmobile or even a long tarp?

I need less-lethal solutions to taking down people. Just being bullet-resistant isn’t enough. I’ve got to come up with smoke-bombs to choke people out and conceal myself. And the home-made taser weapon could be a thing.

Maybe a net? A wire net that would cast over a couple people then jolt them? I’d have to launch it from the Batmobile because there is no way I’m hauling around forty pounds of capacitors.

Hmmm, maybe a net launcher? I could carry it, aim, and pow!

Getting to work, I find comfort in yanking several more capacitors free. Scouring their plugs, I wire them together and tinker with the voltage. With a pencil and an old composition book, I design a launcher. It’s like a reverse crossbow that flings a coiled-up net.

Would the wire be copper? This will take some thought. And I’ve got to regulate the output. I don’t want to kill anyone. Maybe if I time it in asynchromatic spurts… it would jolt the people in the nets to keep them from getting out while still making them miserable as hell and unable to attack.

I’m halfway through welding a stock for the launcher when I notice the sun is coming up. Once Lucius is awake, I’ll ask him for ideas on the wiring for the net itself. And Al can help me get the voltage right. And test it.

We’ll have to test it on me. I have to know what my enemies are suffering to know if they can still be a danger once in the net. And besides, it just seems right that I subject myself to any damage or trauma I’m looking to cause.

Chill was weak. But I’m Batman, and Batman is not.

I keep working well beyond sunrise. Uncle Lucius appears, his beard freshly trimmed, and hands me tea and six scrambled eggs. They have bits of bacon and cheese in them. Just like his sister, Mom, used to make us on Sundays before church.

“Heya.” I greet him with a wave. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He eyes over my work as I attack the eggs and tea with extreme prejudice. “You know, I can dig up some interesting PDFs on improvised devices designed for capturing people non-lethally. Some of it is… problematic, given these are manuals for kidnappers and terrorists in the Middle East and Southeast Asia.”

I blink at him.

“Some of it is ‘how to torture with a car battery’ but it can be useful to your ends.”

“You… are suggesting that to battle evil I use the Al-Qaeda Boyscout manual?”

After pondering, Lucius slowly nods. “Much of our understanding of modern anatomy and especially pregnancy stems from Nazi experiments on Jews. Evil beyond compare, but the knowledge can be redeemed for other purposes.”

Well, ain’t this a conundrum.

“Yeah, I’ll look at it. Or, some of it. It in English? Or will it be auto-translated to shit with Google?”

Lucius shakes his head. “Al-Qaeda translated all of their materials into English. It’s the most spoken second language, afterall. And Al-Qaeda are equal opportunity employers.”

This jolts a fear in me. “Uncle Lu?” I ask, suddenly feeling like a kid. “How will I know I’ve gone too far?”

He smiles. “When you think your parents would be ashamed.”

With that he walks off and disappears into the junkyard’s maze, returning to the office to open it for the day’s business.

I continue fruitlessly for a few hours, improvising a timing belt for the launcher. I can shoot a short chunk of rebar about ten feet when I decide to go check on Lucius. Maybe he printed out those psycho manuals but hasn’t had a chance to walk out here and deliver them.

Besides, I’m ready for my second breakfast.

Stiff, I trot to the front office near the gate of the junkyard. It’s a sturdy brick building with an upstairs for Uncle Lu to live comfortably in. Honestly, my parents had let the building go but when he moved in, he cleaned everything up, redid the stairs, and added lovely curtains and shutters. He even has a green thumb, growing mint and other herbs in window boxes.

I spy the bat house he bolted onto the side, pleased. They keep the yard clear of pests.

But as I walk around to the front I see an SUV with ‘sheriff’ on the side. Someone is visiting…

I hurry in to see Uncle Lucius chatting with a man at the counter. He’s dressed in jeans with a tucked-in plaid shirt. Uncle Lu darts his eyes to me.

The sheriff sees this, and looks over. It’s the old coot from TV, the interviewed sheriff from the meth trailer park I blew up.

He doesn’t smile. Quickly, he eyes over my shoulders as if to weigh me. Then his gaze travels down to my boots.

I feel icy. It’s like I’m dinner and he is deciding how hungry he is.

“Bruce, this is Sherif Gordon,” Uncle Lu says coolly. “from down south. He says a tow truck of interest was seen in the area and he’s checking around at junkyards within driving range for it.”

“Driving range of what?” I ask, being smart by being dumb.

Gordon straightens up. I spy his holster and see that it is a leather relic that has seen its revolver drawn infinite times.

“Meth ring blown to hell.” His voice is an earthy rumble. Getting closer he smells of coffee and motor oil. “Tow truck was involved. Older model. Maybe a Mac. All black and tricked out. Seen it?”

I shake my head.

“We have a newer one that Al takes out when we get the call,” I say. “But mostly other towing companies drop off to us. We don’t go out much.”

He looks to Uncle Lu. It’s clear he had said the same thing.

“Mind if I walk around?” Gordon asks. “Been a dog’s age since I dug through a nice yard like this. Used to have an El Camino that needed a lot of attention.”

“Sure,” I offer. “Let me grab an apple and I’ll show you around.”

Show him around everywhere except my covered car park, that is. With as many acres as we have, I just need to outlast this guy’s patience.

He has an easy gait, part meander and part stroll, but his head is always high and his attention swings from side to side, taking everything in. We visit the stacked car frames and the glass containers. Then the electronics’ shed. He occasionally rummages through a bin or kicks a rim just to look interested.

But it is clear he is interested more in me. He doesn’t say much, putting the pressure for conversation back onto me. But I know enough not to speak unless spoken to. Give him nothing.

But he is way more patient than I expected. Isn’t he overworked? Doesn’t he have to be somewhere? He’s an elected official, so maybe he has time to burn. Who knows.

“What’s this?” he asks, noticing my launcher on a covered workbench.

Damnit.

He runs his weathered fingers along the string of capacitors to the launcher. Plucking at the taunt timing belt, he puts together what it is I’m trying to make.

I’m unnerved by the smile that perks up his mustache. Turning toward me, he nods. “I’ve seen all I need to, young man. Thanks for showing me around.”

As he strolls back toward the office, I feel compelled to follow him. I need to wave goodbye to this guy. To make sure to see him out. 

But he stops and slowly turns on his heels.

“Joker is a shifty one, right?”

“Um, who?” I ask, trying not to go pale.

“Caught one of the guys running off, described the tow truck and driver pretty well. But the meth ring. Pretty big operation. Shame there is a distribution center. Somewhere in the city. Someone’s gotta find it.” He glances at my launcher. “You have yourself a good day,” he says with a wink.


	3. Chapter 3

That night I have Al drive me into the heart of Gotham. We take his station wagon and in the back is a military duffle bag with my Batman gear stuffed inside. I figured if things get dicey, I can get changed in a phonebooth or something and ditch the civilian clothes in a dumpster.

I don’t have my phone or any identification, just some cash and change for the bus. As Al pulls up to a curb, I hoist the duffle over my shoulder and lean into the open passenger window. “Pick me up at four am in front of the burned down gas station Southside?” I realized I was ordering him, and then halfway through the sentence I changed it into a request.

Al blinks slowly at me. “Be careful, kid.”

“I will. I’m just scouting again, that’s all. I’m just another homeless guy.”

He nods and drives off.

Gotham itself is a typical city. It represents all of America, really. Ethnically diverse and inconsistently cared for. The downtown is gentrified into polished oblivion and you can see people walking their ten grand French Bulldogs in matching tracksuits every morning as they go to buy artisanal coffee. Right now I’m in the dinner rush and young couples who live in shoebox apartments have put on their one good outfit to try and hookup via Tinder.

They are my age. Perhaps I should be doing that?

I think about the alluring girl I saw at the surplus shop with the cat-eared hood. She doesn’t seem the type to be on tinder, you know? A selfie couldn’t capture what she has.

Tromping around, I add a limp to my walk. I want people to turn away from me. The more homeless and desperate I look, the more forgettable. No one will see me here.

A whiff of Chinese food tugs my nostrils. I haven’t eaten in, like, minutes so I’m ready for another meal. Could food delivery be a good means to deliver drugs?

I dismiss it because it is just too obvious. Besides, I can’t let my nose do the thinking.

A cop passes me on a bike and parks next to another bike cop. They chat while gesturing to a group of pretty girls clomping out of an expensive car like show ponies. Clearly, these two are more interested in serving than protecting.

Nothing will go down here. Maybe cocaine, but I’m after meth. So I make for the largest parking garages. Because twenty-somethings with expendable income are always hunting for small, fun-sized doses of drugs and parking garages are where they like to deal. I’m not sure why, because every corner of a parking garage has a camera, but maybe they think God can’t see through concrete.

Who knows. But anyhow, I just have to find a seller with variety.

I sit on my duffle bag next to the elevator for a bit, maybe an hour. I slouch with my head down and a ball cap obscuring my face. But by the time it is 9pm I’ve still got nothing.

I’m peckish now, watching everyone stroll to their cars with styrofoam leftovers. I smell Thai, BBQ, and pasta. Spying a vending machine across the parking level, I rustle through my pocket to count my change.

That’s it. I’m getting something.

Hauling my bag, I walk with more purpose than I should. Getting closer to the vending machine, I see a kid with an empty backpack stroll up to it. He doesn’t even put change in.

Punching a few buttons, an entire row of yellow chip bags rolls out and falls. An entire ROW. What is this devilry and how can I learn it?

It dawns on me. The vendor delivery truck drops off the goods. They leave the nearest slots open so no one will ever try and buy from that particular row. Then, when the pickup happens, someone punches in some programmed code and the whole row vomits out. And in the chip bags are the goods.

I’m hoping meth.

I duck behind a concrete pillar as the kid stuffs the pile of chip bags into his backpack. Glancing around quickly, he darts off.

I follow.

He’s tough to keep up with as he leaves the garage and dips between couples and groups of laughing friends leaving the fancy bars. But I barrel through, earning a few looks from people for my rudeness.

Turning down an ally, he leads me off of the main street and into the uglier bones of Gotham. It always amazed me how a single turn of the heel will land you in wet garbage and spent needles when you are in the pristine parts of Gotham. The city just cares that you can go down one street and think you’re among wealth.

The kid is also spry. He comes to a chain link fence and climbs over it like it is nothing.

Ugh.

He proceeds down the alleyway and zips to the left out of sight. Frantically, I dig into my duffle bag and get my wire cutters. Clipping the links closest to the post, I squeeze through. The sharp metal tips snag at my jacket and bag, but I’m unharmed and haul ass trying to catch up. No tetanus for me.

Batman does not die of tetanus.

Rounding the corner, I’m stunned to see the kid just standing there, looking at me. He’s clearly there as a distraction.

Before I can turn around and defend myself from the obvious ambush, I’m clobbered on the back of the head.

*************************************************************

Whelp, tetanus might not kill me. But I’m going to die. And I’m more angry than scared.

Angry at myself for being so bad at following people. Angry at myself for not seeing the ambush coming. Angry that Al will sit in his station wagon, worrying. Angry that Uncle Lu moved here for nothing.

Angry that I’m going to die without doing enough.

Angry that I’m going to die strapped to a chair, naked.

The concrete room has several drains placed all around on the floor like a butcher’s abattoir. The A/C is frigid and my duffle bag and torn clothes are flopped in a corner. And they were smart enough to strap down my ankles to the chair’s legs as well as bind my wrists together behind the back.

The steel door in front of me clanks, then swings open with a high pitched whine. A mountain of muscle walks in wearing black spandex and a luchadore’s mask.

I stifle a laugh. This is the guy who gets to kill me? Another clown. First Joker, then this guy.

Leaving the door open behind him, he looks me over. I can’t read his expression from under his wrestling mask, so I wonder if he is deciding whether or not to bench press me before chopping me up.

Then he slowly nods.

“Bane?” Someone behind him, outside the room, hands him a small phone. They exchange words in Spanish. I know enough to understand that this luchadore has been waiting for this call.

“Que?” he asks. He’s got a smooth, tenor voice.

I can’t hear the voice on the other end of the phone, but he is nodding receptively. When he hangs up, he crushes the phone in his hand. Which impresses me because it is a Nokia.

“So, why are you following us?” he asks me in crisp English. Walking around me in a circle, he motions for the door to be closed. It clanks shut. “Just you and I are here, now. No one is listening. No one will come. Just us two,” he says, like I didn’t know.

He thinks he is scaring me, and he is, but he is also giving me a chance to watch his body move. He’s a seasoned fighter, has a strong core and a barrel chest. His shoulders are heaped with muscle. A mix of cardio and powerlifting has given him a strong back.

But he favors his left knee. Something happened to it, and it still bothers him.

I wonder if I should keep my yap shut like I did with Sherif Gordon. Granted, he figured me out pretty quick. So maybe I should distract this wrestler by engaging in conversation.

“I just wanted some chips,” I confess coyly.

“You lie,” he sneers. “Nobody likes Salt and Vinegar. That’s why we picked them.”

Huh. He might just give me everything, since he’s convinced I’m going to die. Perhaps I can work on an exchange of information before I figure out… uh… well, the not-dying bit.

“The meth comes from the vendor? Someone with a vendor machine key?”

He stops walking and just looks at me.

I press on. “How many machines? What locations?”

His posture takes on a gesture of disbelief. “You do realize that you are tied to the chair naked, not me?”

“I got you right where I want you,” I say. I wriggle a bit for emphasis, but also to test my straps a bit. The one by my right leg gives a little.

Stepping at me, he grabs my head. His whole hand covers the top of my skull and he cranes me up to look at him. “How do you want to die?” he asks.

“Gunshot to the heart while standing on white tile,” I answer. It is the most honest thing I’ve ever said.

I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know what to make of me.

He lets me go. “Why are you after our distributor?”

“It’s meth, man. Do I need another reason? It needs to be stopped.”

“It can’t be stopped. The demand is constant. Now that opioids have been reigned in, people are clamoring for it. And with the borders intermittently closed, the domestic market is wild.” He speaks like a businessman.

“You do it?” I ask. Honestly, the guy takes care of himself so I’d be stunned.

He shakes his head. “No one on my crew is permitted to touch anything unnatural like that.”

“So we agree,” I smile.

He leans into my face. His breath is minty. Winterfresh?

“And what more ethically reasonable source of income do you propose for the illegal immigrants and abused migrants under my protection, hmm? Selling white folk their poison also carries a level of poetic justice.” He straightens up, raring to his full height. 

It’s hard to gage how big he is from this rickety wooden chair, but I’m certain he is taller than me and hauling fifty more pounds. “Machines pick their strawberries, now. Full time jobs with medical benefits are a thing of the past. We live with four, five families per townhome on the outskirts of town while taking public transportation that crashes or arrives late if at all. This revenue stream you seek to interrupt is reliable, profitable, and put to good use. Braces, cancer screenings, homecare, hospice, schooling…”

He catches himself on his soapbox and sighs. I can see his passion, but something occurs to him and his massive shoulders slump.

“I’ll make it gentle. We’ll send you off painlessly. Pick your poison. Heroin? We can send you off with heroin.”

“Like I said; gunshot to the heart while standing on-”

“I don’t use guns. I hate guns. A coward’s tool,” he snaps. Seems we have something in common.

Thinking a moment, I consider his luchador mask. This is how he chooses to present himself to me, and possibly his crew. Now, if I remember the Spanish channel correctly, luchadors come in two flavors; the good guys and the bad guys. So far, this guy thinks he is a good guy. Which means he adheres to good guy codes.

This isn’t a torture chamber or a kill room, this is a wrestling ring. And he is his own audience.

“Right,” I say. “Guns are for cowards and fools. What was the saying? ‘God made men but Colt made men equal?” I flex against the chair, showing off my muscle. I’m not him, but I’m bigger than most and I bench plenty. I’ve got to entice him. “Lesser men equal to greater men?”

“Then… you want to die with a beating?” He cracks his knuckles.

It’s now or never. “You sure you can handle that? With me tied to the chair and all?” I give it my all, pulling against the straps. I snarl and spit and tug and wriggle and the front right leg of the chair cracks free. My right leg is free! I swing it out at him. “Come here so I can kick you!” I yell.

He laughs. It is honestly a warm, mellifluous laugh. He bangs on the door. It opens, and he gives stern instructions in Spanish. Thankfully he repeats them so I get the gist.

Basically he told his boys that if I walk out of this room, I’m free to go.

Then he closes the door again.

“You. Me. The first one out that door wins.” Walking behind me, he undoes my wrists. Stepping back, he lets me untether my left leg. Wearily, I stand and stagger clear of him. For a moment, I think of running for the door. But no, that would cheapen his moment. He wants a fight. A real, proper fight.

“Feel free to get dressed…” He gestures toward my stuff in the corner.

“Nah.” I haul off and punch him.

He dips away and my knuckles barely connect.

I keep advancing, swinging haymaker after haymaker. He dodges or blocks them with his forearms. They are like trees.

Kneeing for his groin, I only glance his inner thigh.

He headbutts me and the world goes white. Both his arms are around me, now. I’m off the ground, but being naked has its advantages. Sweaty, I slip down out of his grasp as we grapple each other, stomping for leverage, our arms tangled around our heads. 

He relies on his height and weight.

I rely on my teeth as I chomp his thumb.

Good-guy luchadors fight and have an honor code for fighting. Seems I’m the heel.

He calls me something unflattering in Spanish.

I kick his shin, stomping down into the toes of his boot.

Pissed off, I hear him snarl as he drops down, grabbing my legs. Hoisting me up, he slams me back down into the chair. It splinters into pieces, skittering across the concrete.

My slippery sweat gets me out of an arm lock just in time for me to knuckle-punch up, right upward into his nads. It genuinely hurt my hand. I might have popped a knuckle.

But he drops to a knee. His bad one.

I hammer him right in the throat with my palm. No matter how big and tough you are, you gotta breathe. And he won’t be for a minute.

To finish it off, his way, I dive onto him and pin him to the concrete like we’re on a wrestling mat. He’s choking and coughing as his lungs rebel while I get one of his massive arms behind his back. Bringing it up between his shoulders, I got him.

I got him!

He tries to rise to his knees, but I give him all my weight. He’s strong, but not strong enough. A dozen playground fights and school expulsions have finally paid off.

“Uncle?” I ask, rasping for air. “Uncle?”

It is small. Minimal, but I see him nod.

Releasing his arm immediately, I roll off of him. This may sound odd, but I give a congratulatory pat on his shoulder. “We can rematch… after I take out… that meth lab.” I really don’t want this guy to hold a grudge. Something tells me this is the kind of dude I can work around or even work with.

He gave me a chance. So I will give him one.

Staggering up to his knees, he raises his arms above his head so his diaphragm can open up, getting him air. But he doesn’t come for me. He just wheezes.

I unzip my duffle bag and start putting on my Batman gear. Batman is walking out of here, not Bruce.

Clasping on my armor and canvas overalls, I pull out my welding helmet. I see his eyes focus on the bat ears, and he nods in understanding. With a withered voice, he remarks “I did not know you were also a luchador.”

I offer him a kindly grin. “Burn that meth. Got it? And heroin or whatever else. And no hurting people. No mugging. No… just, be good. All right?”

Staggering to his feet, he leans against the wall. “It is all I can do to stop us from prostituting ourselves. We will do what we must.”

“Tell me where the distribution center is, at least. Where it is in Gotham…”

He shakes his head.

“Well? What can you do for me?” I yell, my voice echoing. I own this room now, our tiny wrestling ring.

“I won’t tell them you are coming. And we will get out of your way.”

“Staying out of my way is a good idea.” I flip down my face shield. “But you tell them I’m coming. Tell them Batman is coming.”


	4. Chapter 4

They let me leave, at least eight guys watching me wide-eyed. I must have been the first guy to beat Bane in a brawl.

But it won’t happen again. I fought dirty and there is no way he is letting me get to his nuts a second time.

So now I’m standing in full bat-gear in front of a closed utility office at four am under a street lamp. I genuinely look like a jackass. Like a convention nerd waiting for his parents to pick him up.

And right on time, Al pulls up with the station wagon. He’s got the windows down, cigarette dangling from his lip.

“How was yer night?” he asks.

“Okay. Was naked for a bit. Chased after food. The usual.”

We drive home in tired silence.

I slept like a baby for almost a solid day. After that, here is what I did.

I took the station wagon around during the day with my binoculars. It was honestly nice to get out and just cruise, seeing kids playing in the streets and people walking to work or whatever their hussle is.

Swinging by the surplus store, I secretly hoped to see that girl again. No dice, so I just buy some mask filters and flares. I remind him again to come by the yard for what I owe him.

I return to business. I tag on my map every vending machine I can find. Furthermore, I eye them over from a distance, seeing if they have salt and vinegar chips. And sure enough, seven machines throughout the city do. And each of those machines have the first two slots for the chips empty, so anyone perverted enough to want salt and vinegar chips would have to pay three times for their first bag.

I don’t dare put change in to try and buy any. Odds are the machine won’t process my request anyway if they have already hacked it. And I’m hoping Bane didn’t tell anyone how I came to meet him, just that Batman is out there.

I want to set up cameras on each vending machine, but I can’t. I just don’t have the money for that many cameras on a closed network.

So I rig a single camera, battery powered with an external harddrive of memory, and a zoom lens. I hide it pretty well across the street and hit record. I figure I’ll wait a week or so to come back for it.

And that week is spent practicing with my launcher and working out. I’m riding high after beating Bane, but I’m also terrified about the next time I have to square off against him.

Al spots me on the weights, and after muscle failure we move to the launcher. The net is working well, launching over a wide enough area to snag a few me-sized men, so we tackle the voltage.

Youch.

It takes only an hour for my burn marks to show. I’ve got a checkered pattern on my forearms and I am aaallll done with being electrocuted. I’m going to vomit if I take another jolt. We zapped me three times, twice under the net. Not even Bane could handle this.

Al still insists on cranking the power just a fraction more. “Yeh want them knocked out,” he says. “but no catching old folk or people with weak hearts.”

As we’re gnawing on ribs that night, I’m gazing at Al’s oil-drum smoker and wondering if we could repurpose a shipping crate into something similar. Not a smoker. Sorry, that was confusing. But I’m thinking of my welding tools and a Caterpillar digger that partially works and then I have an idea.

“Yep!” I say, jumping from my lawn chair. Uncle Lu nearly spills his hot sauce. “We drag the digger out here. Right here. Dig a long ditch for one of those shipping containers we have, and place it in the ground. Then I cut a hole in the top. We’ll have a trapdoor to keep my launcher, flares, armor, and all that inside.”

Al keeps chewing, barely looking at me.

“And what about the Batmobile?” Uncle Lu asks. “Gordon already has you pegged, and if he wants he can arrest you on that alone and put you away.”

I start drawing a basic schematic with my boot tip in the dirt. “We’ll roll that old school bus on top of the container to cover it, cut a hole in the bottom of the bus, and I can jump right in. The truck is, what, seven and a half feet? That will fit in the container. I’ll just drive it out from an open end of the container, up a ramp.”

“A ramp?”

I nod. “Sure. We can rig garage door openers together and disguise the door with junk. It will all look like a giant pile of junk.”

“But you’ll still be driving through the main entrance?”

“We’ve got a lot of gravel in those bins still, right? I’ll make a gravel sideroad to cover my tracks and we can do something with a side-gate in the trees on the south side of the yard.”

Al and Uncle Lu connected glances.

Uncle Lu frowned. “That’s a lot of work…”

“Secret lairs often are,” I counter. “I don’t want anyone getting in the way of making Gotham better. Not Bane, not Gordon, not the police, no one.”

******************************************************************

This took weeks.

I took to working and welding. Al dug the trench for the shipping container, but moving it was a greater problem. We had to borrow a truck for that by cashing in a few future favors.

I let Uncle Lu handle the wiring. Running electricity to it was dicey and I didn’t want to burn anything out, so I sat back while he watched endless youtube tutorials and snipped at wires. Al triple checked everything, but we eventually got someone professional to come out and install a secondary breaker box.

Tipped him with beer to not ask too many questions.

The garage door openers were a bit more challenging. I didn’t have money for new ones, and the three I got working were all of different horsepower and torque. So I improvised a chain system where the three could work in tandem without one overpowering the other too. It was a temporary solution, and I’m sure I’ll burn a motor out within a year or so, but for now it will do.

The project itself was a wonderful way for me to kill time while waiting for fruitful footage from my secret camera. By the third time I checked it, I was getting frustrated but the ‘Batcave’ project was keeping my mind occupied. And it may sound odd, but a part of me wants to please Sheriff Gordon. He let me off the hook, aimed me in a direction, and I don’t want to let him down any.

A month rolled by. The Batcave is awesome and I can stay down there indefinitely now that we welded in a snorkel and ventilation fan. I spend the hours tinkering with my Batsuit and practicing with the ballistic shield while watching the news on an old flatscreen.

More police-brutality protests in Gotham. People are furious. Yet another black kid shot.

I don’t know how I can help with that.

Vicky Vale is interviewing that same councilman again. Pointing the microphone toward his goatee, she asks “Dr. Ra’s, what can you tell us about the reform proposition you are constructing?”

He nods solemnly. “Well, Ms. Vale, I find that our current Mayor just isn’t up to the task of wrangling the populace of Gotham, or addressing their understandable needs. People require safety and security, especially from the police, and our people do not feel safe. We need to pursue assurances of reform and transparency on the street level.”

I kinda like this guy, but I wonder how far his intentions actually go.

“But Dr. Ra’s, how much tangible difference can we expect in regards to this quantified and recorded police brutality? And when can we expect a difference?”

She read my mind.

“I understand the need, and hear the want,” he responds smoothly. “I can only move as fast as our current mayor will permit me. The speed with which we address this epidemic of police violence coupled with rioting and protesting citizens is entirely on him, but I will do my best to move him forward.”

Huh. He presents his case as impossible, but gives himself points for trying before he has tried. And man, did he throw the mayor under the bus.

The screen cuts away, yielding to Vicky Vale’s voiceover.

“But some of these protestors-turned-rioters have escalated things well beyond safe boundaries.” A bunch of hooded jackasses are breaking windows and burning a squad car. Their faces are covered in some thin black material and a giant green question mark is dyed on the front.

One runs toward the news crew, waving a crowbar. “It’s all connected, man!” he screeches. “Police violence, oppression, pedophiles! We gotta solve the riddle!”

*************************************************************

Time for another cookout.

I setup some bricks outside the trailer and make a firepit. Wrapping cobs of corn and sweet potatoes in tin foil, I toss them in. Skewering some cubed beef and chicken with mushrooms, onions, and peppers, I get a proper dinner going for the three of us.

I even roll the cooler out with their favorite beer.

Al and Uncle Lu have suffered my obsessiveness a lot lately. I should be helping more in the office, or organizing the junk and listing it online. But instead I’ve been Batman and intermittently gotten my ass kicked. I wanted to thank them both.

As soon as Al sees the smoke from the fire across the yard, I see him walk back to his trailer and fetch his banjo. Uncle Lu closes the office early, hangs the closed sign, and drags over the lawn chairs. I roll up the spool table and we all park, watching dinner sear, as Al plunks a sad, slow tune on the banjo.

Only he could make the most cheerful, psychotic instrument in the world sound sad.

Uncle Lu swigs his beer. “You know, I went digging for those terrorist manuals. The ones we were going to scour for useful schematics?”

“Yeah?”

“Found them, but found some other material, too,” He says grimly. “In the darker corners of the internet I found a row of conspiracy theorists. A cult, honestly. They are convinced there are blood-drinking cabals of pedophiles and they have set their sights on the mayor being one of them.”

I nod. “Question mark masks?”

He nods back.

“I’ll go into town Saturday night. Join a protest and look for anyone trying to whip them up into violence.”

Al starts whistling along with his tune, mournfully shaking his head side to side.

“Just be careful, Bruce,” Uncle Lu says. “Some people want nothing more than to tear everything apart. It is the only impression they are resolved to make upon the world, and they will mobilize behind any absurdity to feel empowered.”

Al stops whistling. “When I was in ops, way down in Central America, we worked with an anti-government cult. They said the same shit about Satan-worshipers an whatnot. But they could shoot an we used ‘em for blowing up what buildings bothered us.” He stops playing the banjo entirely, leans forward, and eyes me directly. This is important to him because he never talks about his time in the service. “As soon as that government fell, they went on to eatin someone else. And then each other. Just remember, the final destination of any train of thought is extreme. And that is, always, evil.”

He’s not talking about riddles, or conspiracy theories, or anything else.

It’s Batman.

This is a warning about Batman.

“Good thing I have you two,” I smile.

*************************************************************

Saturday night comes. I’ve got the Batsuit refurbished with a polished ‘bat’ on my chest like a hood ornament. Al helped me replace the Batmobile’s driver-side door with the ballistic shield so each time I climb out I can carry it with me. I would prefer not to be shot ever again.

I practice with the shield-door, leaping into the truck and then leaping out with it on my arm over and over. It feels good. Right. Powerful. It feels like the opposite of helpless. This time I’m also going with the cape, a canvas tarp soaked in fire retardant, since fire might be a problem.

I roll out of the new secret exit of the Wayne junkyard and rumble the Batmobile into the industrial part of Gotham’s southside. Most of the protests start downtown and worm their way out from there, but recently a fast food place and a bookstore were torched near the projects. Even if I can’t get intel on any of these riddling guys, I might still save a small family business. Or chase off a couple cops trying to choke someone to death. There is plenty of bad to be stopped.

I switch on the ham radio I installed in the Batmobile. I surf the channels, listening to the hospitals. I could listen to the police, but I figure wherever ambulances are called is where I can do the most good.

Drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, I start to feel bored. I mean, the sun went down. When are the protests kicking in? Maybe I need to make an account on Facebook like Uncle Lu has. Join some fringe groups and get invited to this stuff.

The ambulance radio traffic picks up.

Someone fell down an escalator.

Another guy was found overdosed on laughing meth.

A domestic disturbance resulted in head trauma.

And then the radio pretty much blows up. I sort through every channel. I hear the term ‘flash mob’ in a few spots and sure enough, there are several hotspots throughout the city. Hooded rioters, question marks, pipe bombs, and gas masks are all on the menu. 

The downtown stretch, the nice one, is untouched. But the egg-crate housing in the poor part of town is in danger as well as the hospital and the uptown wealthy townhome district.

The hospital will have its own staff. The wealthy will have their own security. But the egg-crates have the most vulnerable people.

I floor it.

And it feels good. The Batmobile has a modified W12 Bentley engine in it, and every theoretical horsie under the hood huffs and charges as I barrel down the streets. Anyone without earbuds can hear me coming a mile off, and those with earbuds can still feel me through their feet.

I pass tiny parades of white men dressed up as military operators. They are playing Call of Duty, screeching patriots, desperate to be relevant. I see cops smiling at them, shaking hands, and even a cop throws up a ‘white-power’ gesture to them. He receives whoops of approval.

I’m glad my welding visor is down, but luckily none of them pay much attention to the tow truck. Maybe in the dark they mistake me for just another police bearcat rolling by.

People start crowding the streets more as I leave the cops and egar militia behind. I can’t go much faster than an idle, now, since the throng of people are mewling about in the street. Several American flags are burning and a couple of traffic cones are turned into improvised torches. But most people are just excitedly gesturing and yelling.

Then I see her.

The girl with the cat ears.

She has her head down, slinking through the crowd.

A store window near her gets a trash can, shattering it. Without missing a beat she steps inside.

I rev the engine, startling everyone nearby. They aren’t brave enough yet to get in my way, so they clear out for me to maneuver my truck into a three-point turn. I block the street longways, Pull the kill plug under the dash so the truck can’t be driven despite the engine running, and step out.

I leave the ballistic door. I’ll only be a minute.

“Hey!” I yell after her, stomping over shattered glass. Several looters swarm by me to get inside like its Black Friday at Walmart. “Cat girl!”

I see her outline turn toward me, her cat-eared hood outlined by the fire in the street.

She lets me approach. Already she’s got her arms full of factory-packaged cell phones. “I’m a woman,” she corrects.

Her Hispanic accent is thick, as if she could possibly be hotter.

Towering over her, I point at the phones. “Really?” I snidely ask.

I immediately regret it as she glares at me. I don’t know her story, after all. And someone was going to nab them. Damnit, Batman does not fight the poor and destitute.

Storming around me, she enters the street to leave.

“Hey, I’m… hold on.” I’m hustling after her like a jackass. Fumbling for something to say, I ask about the riddling people. “Question mark masks? Have you seen any of those guys? Know where they congregate?”

“Keep away from them,” she snaps. “They are trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Loco. Violent. They are just here to get people angier and cause trouble.”

“Who’s side are they on?” I ask.

Catwoman full-stops, phones still clutched in her hands. She has ruby nailpolish but her nails are short like she chews them. A ring around her thumb is a curled spoon handle, the kind a grandmother has with her special occasion flatware.

“Theirs.” she says. “Mostly white boys from the sound of it. They speak fluent ‘internet’ shorthand.”

“What the hell does that mean?” I ask, flummoxed.

“Like instead of saying ‘be right back’ they literally say ‘brb’ and stuff like that. Listen, you’re the guy who torched Joker’s place?”

I am completely taken aback. She must have seen me stagger because a playful, predatory smile slices across her face. My god, I now am staring at her glossy lips.

“Yeah,” she nods. “Thought so. Heard you got shot. And saw that Harley was preggers and decided to save everyone instead of kill them.”

“I-I thought the place was empty. I didn’t want anyone to die.”

She gives me a slow blink, the kind a contented cat does when it is looking at you from a warm spot on the couch. “Be careful, right?” she says. “Joker is now obsessed with you. He’s got a tattoo of your mask on his arm.”

There is literally a protest/riot percolating all around us, and I don’t care. All that exists is this girl. And she knows who I am. Kinda.

“Jesus, you know him? Keep away from that guy. He shot me in the head twice.”

She nods, unfazed. “I’m leaving before this gets worse.” She gestures to the phones in her hands. “This is a good night and I don’t want to spoil it.”

I’m pretty sure I know where she is going to sell those.

The shouting becomes intense around us. Off in the distance sirens start working up. I turn, craning my head to see the police, in full phalanx, walking toward this end of the street, boxing in protests and rioters alike.

Several fire off less lethal guns, knocking down fleeing people. They cry out, clutching their backs as friends drag them clear.

I look back to Catwoman to see that she is watching the other end of the street as the police have formed an opposing barrier.

We’re getting sandwiched.

She looks down at the phones in her hands. A hint of despair crosses her face.

I’ll deal with the ethical fallout later. For now, I’m just going with my instinct.

“Get in,” I motion to the Batmobile. “Door’s unlocked.” Running back to my truck, I walk around the rear of it. A cop in riot gear is aiming a riot gun at me, one of the single-shot 40mm ones with rubber-

He shoots me right in the head. It jolts me, slamming me against the back bumper of the Batmobile. The impact is way harder than when Joker shot me. Holy shit.

They aren’t supposed to ever hit people in the head.

He reloads.

Catwoman is under my arm, hoisting me to my feet. “We’ve gotta go.”

Man, I hope I smell good.

The cop raises to fire off another round. I roll in front of her, covering her, as he shoots. The round smacks into my back, but the armor takes it.

I shove her toward the cab. “Get it!”

Several more cops unload at us. People are screaming in the streets, running desperately for cover. Gas canisters dink to the ground in the street, squirting their green poison.

Opening the ballistic door, first, Catwoman gets in. I notice that she dropped all of her phones to help me when I got hit.

I’m furious. Furious. Maybe I’m thinking with the wrong parts of me, and yeah, I was about to help her haul off with some stolen goods that someone else was certainly going to steal if not her, but I’m pretty sure she needed them.

I spin around. The nearests cop is reloading his launcher. He’s less than thirty feet away.

I charge him, full bore. All my weight forward. He is so focused on reloading his round, he doesn’t even expect me. Fucker is so used to beating on ramen-fed college kids and the homeless.

Plowing into him, my arms crossed, I check him into the air like I’m an angry hockey player in the last game of his career. He manages to hang onto his launcher as he sails into the asphalt. He fires it one more time into me and it just bounces right off the bat on my chest.

I snatch the gun from his hands and pummel him with it. “Mine!” I roar, but I doubt he hears me over the din. 

The other cops nearby don’t even charge in. They close ranks like cowards. Here they thought themselves apex predators, but I’m towering over them, clad in better armor, and I’m well beyond pissed.

Catwoman yells somewhere behind me. “Batshit! Let’s go!”

I let the cop roll over and scramble away. I kick him right in the ass as he does so. Satisfied with the final yelp I got out of him, I carry the gun back to the truck. It’s mine now. I have a rubber launcher.

Climbing in, I close the ballistic door behind me.

Then the bullets hit. The real bullets. Catwoman cries out, curling herself down. I’m pretty sure the Batmobile can take anything under a .308, but I’m not going to chance things. Plugging the killswitch back in, I roll forward. Tugging at the wheel, I turn hard but still jump the sidewalk. The Batmobile pulls several street signs up from the concrete like weeds and I rumble and rev the engine as I barrel at the cops, flashing my lights.

Knowing their clear plastic riot shields would do nothing, the cops scatter in all directions letting me through. Beyond them are several SUV’s just sitting in the street. Several SWAT are there, rifles leveled, and they dump their magazines into the front of the Batmobile.

The truck eats their lead like it is nothing and I even serve for one of the SUV’s. I’m going to leave my mark.

The SWAT run from behind it, seeing me coming. I gun it at the last second and send the SUV tumbling like a hollow piece of tupperware. It twirls behind me, upside down, in the street as it sprinkles glass and sparks everywhere.

“Whoa!” Catwoman cheers while frantically clicking her seatbelt on.

Engine roaring, I get us the hell out of there. Twisting and bending down several streets, I avoid any major intersections so cameras won’t catch her. After about ten minutes, I get us into some sideroads that lead to the railyard south of Gotham.

“Where to?” I ask.

Man, it feels so good having her in my car. I’m on top of the world.

“Anywhere is fine. I’ll find my way,” she says.

I hesitate. “I’m sorry about your haul. Want the launcher instead?” I offer.

“Nah, no where to unload it.” she says. “Besides, I don’t deal in guns.”

There are literal butterflies in my gut. Yeah, that’s a real thing.

I slow to a stop and turn off the lights. “Thank you,” I say. “but really, could you give me a lead on those riddling guys? Or even Joker? It would save me a huge amount of trouble.”

She gives me a critical gaze. “What are you trying to accomplish? Why look for trouble?”

“I’m here to make Gotham better.”

She nods, pondering my sincerity. “Joker is in a wheelchair, from what I heard. Harley is trying to keep him put until the baby comes. She’s desperate to have family with that creep for some reason, so maybe she’ll keep him bottled up at least for a bit. But the Riddler is the guy you are asking about. He runs a forum online. Riddles.net, which looks like a harmless website for elementary school teachers but when you sign up and fill in a code for the forums, you get into a secret section. He drops his musings and instructions there to his little minions.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Minions will tell anything and everything to impress a hot girl.” She opens her door.

Don’t go.

Can we get drive through? A milkshake? Who doesn’t like milkshakes?

“Can I… call you? Or text you?” I ask, jelly in my knees.

Stepping out, she turns to me before closing the door. There is a mild interest in her eyes as she leans her weight onto one leg, showing off her hips.

“No.”


	5. Chapter 5

Uncle Lucius delivers a fresh pot of coffee and takes his seat at the breakfast spool table.

“The Batmobile… has white streaks of paint on the front. What did you hit?” He glares.

I buy myself a few seconds, shoveling eggs into my mouth.

“Did you hit a police car?” he asks pointedly.

Al’s eyes twinkle with amusement.

“No,” I say, grasping my coffee, stirring in my sugar. I don’t take cream in my coffee, because I’m a man… but I also like sugar because I don’t hate myself. “Not a car.”

Confirming Uncle Lu’s suspicions, he reels in his chair. “A what, then? A van? An SUV?”

I nod, taking a cautious sip.

A voice fires from across the yard. “Rolled it right over…”

It is Sheriff Gordon, strolling up.

I nervously eye the revolver on his hip. My coffee will serve as a splashing weapon if he reaches for it.

But his gait is too relaxed as he approaches. Al is stiff as a board and Uncle Lucius is already beginning to sweat.

Tromping up, Gordon helps himself to the coffee pot. Looking about for a mug, he quizzically raises an eyebrow. “Got a cup I might borrow, if you’d be so accommodating?” If driving over a cattle guard was a voice, it would be Gordon’s.

Uncle Lu pushes his own mug over. Gordon nods in thanks as he pours himself a cup.

Black, no cream or sugar. I am out-manned.

“Video footage of you in that battering ram has made its way across the state and beyond. Precincts are sharing it as a cautionary tale, validation for escalating against the ever mysterious cabal that they call… Antifa.” Gordon blows on his coffee. He has yet to meet my eyes.

“They were boxing people in,” I snarl.

“Rioters and looters, you mean?” he retorts.

Al is fuming, but staying quiet.

I fire back. “Are you pretending that Gotham PD would follow any due process for people that got caught up in that?”

Without warning, he thunders. “I aimed you in a direction to make things better, not worse! I wanted a meth house taken down. You handle that, yet? Or is that level of finesse beyond a thug like you?”

My knees turn to jelly. I am far more afraid of this man than I was Bane.

Al leaps up so quickly that his folding chair topples. He’s ready to pummell Gordon, but Gordon doesn’t flinch.

The two codgers stare each other down.

I butt in. “You didn’t come here to arrest anyone,” I observe. “And you know those cops were boxing people in and escalating things with or without me. So what is this really about?”

Looking about, Gordon spies an unused lawn chair and drags it over. Tiredly, he plops down. “You wanna do good, right? Well, cops need someone to do some good for em, too.”

“The fuck they do,” Al snarls. “Let Chill get off easy. Beat on people in need. Beat on their wives. Turn away when dirt is being done in front of em because of bullshit fraternity.”

Gordon gestures for Al to sit, and he does so hesitantly.

“Gotham PD, and most cities, have police forces just as traumatized as the regular folk,” he says, adjusting his gun belt. Sitting in a lawn chair with a revolver isn’t easy. “Everyone is overburdened. Police gotta be psychiatrists, psychics, saviors, angels, mercenaries, and killers. Modern police have such a muddled identity these days. A sheriff like me has it easy, I got a township and people I answer to every election.”

“They were occupying Gotham, not serving and protecting it.” I say.

Gordon nods sadly. “And what will scaring the shit out of them do?”

“I humiliated them at best. I didn’t terrorize them.”

Gordon sighs. Whatever thunder came out of him appears to be spent just as fast as it came. “Kid, what you did with saving those lives at that trailer park got you serious currency with me. It did. Joker has surprisingly good lawyers and I can’t get a hold on him. You are a blunt instrument that I feel can be of use. But don’t sway too far. You stick to hammering nails. You start hammering screws, and you’ll attract my ire.”

“I will hammer flat what needs hammering.”

Gordon sighs a second time, but with more introspection. He’s thinking, his critical eyes finally locking onto mine. “Then when it comes to things like police and whatnot, talk to me. I know these people. I can steer you better.” He digs in his shirt pocket and pulls out an old hospital pager, the kind doctors wore in the 80’s. “Write down the number on the back of this. Page me when you need me. We can chat.”

I’m mildly surprised. I was expecting the reverse for a moment. I was expecting that he’d give the pager to me and have me come to him. But this guy respects my boundaries. He calls me a blunt instrument, and yet he doesn’t want to wield me like one.

I borrow Uncle Lu’s fancy pen from his pocket and scratch the pager number down on a napkin.

“I’ve been monitoring vending machines around Gotham. They move meth in repurposed pill capsules sealed in potato chip bags. Easier to transport and sell. I’m just waiting to get footage of one of the drop offs.” I report. “The riot thing was… well, it just came up.”

Gordon nods. “It will come up more, given the state of things. Some guy online calling himself Riddler is organizing events, encouraging both neo-nazi’s and white crazies to bring guns to protests on one forum while organizing the protests among idealists and soccer moms on another.”

Uncle Lucius nods. “He releases ‘riddles’ right? Conspiracy theories with blanks for people to fill in. I read about him in Rolling Stone.”

“Get that meth out of Gotham,” Gordon continues. “Get it away from my city and my county. I’ll keep digging on Riddler and see what the departments come up with.”

“Won’t that be federal?” Uncle Lu asks. “Riddler sounds like a Russian operator to me.”

The word ‘operator’ makes Al flinch a bit. He hasn’t even touched his coffee.

Shrugging, Gordon concedes. “Maybe. But the fed shares with us most times. And I’ll share with you, if Riddler is indeed a nail.”

With that he continued to sip his coffee in silence.

A tension remains as Uncle Lu and I eat. I have to gently nudge Al’s knee under the spool to remind him that bacon and eggs are in fact his favorite thing in the world. Gripping his fork like a bayonet, Al keeps one eye on Gordon as he slowly eats.

The way forward from here feels both complex and yet reassuringly simple. I’ve got this sheriff on my side, for now. But I know he’ll turn on me if he feels I’m a greater danger than the help I offer. He’s a pragmatic sort, unbound by the letter of the law but certainly not the intent of it.

However, the guidance and legwork he provides can be extremely useful.

After a half hour of silence, while Al is having his morning cigarette and Uncle Lu is gathering plates, Gordon politely thanks us for the coffee.

“Best coffee of my life. No lie,” he says, almost surprised.

Uncle Lu nods in appreciation, but I know he’s secretly proud. He hand-grinds an Ethiopian blend from the import grocery store every other day.

As Gordon wanders off, I fold the napkin with his pager number and stuff it into the front of my overalls.

Time to repaint the Batmobile and dig out some bullets.

******************************************************************

That night I ride the metro, then the bus, then the metro again. I pretty much just ride around Gotham, watching people getting off and on to head to work, head home, or head to their next hussle. Everyone’s nose in their phone, ears stuffed with headphones, or reading a book.

It’s nice to be carted around and gather your thoughts for a bit.

My first stop is the hidden camera. Sitting on a nearby curb, I speed through the footage on it and at some point two days ago a semi was blocking the view of the vending machine when it got refilled. A smaller truck, perhaps? Maybe someone on foot with a pull cart?

God damnit.

I place the camera back as I found it, hidden away. Deleting the footage to make room, I hope for better luck next week.

But I’m not done barking up this particular meth-tree tonight. Hopping the metro again, I head to the bad part of Gotham… to where I walked out of Bane’s hideout.

I’m nervous. They know my face so they could shoot me on sight if I knock. So I decide to be polite. Arriving at the apartment block Bane and his gang resided in, I park myself on a vacant bench out front. Kicking back, I bust out a library book of Uncle Lu’s recommendation and read for a bit.

It’s a book called The Ugly American. Seriously, look it up and read it. What Uncle Lu is trying to tell me is obviously this: understand the people you are trying to save.

Am I trying to save Bane? I am directly threatening the money for his operation, an operation that he feels passionate about. They guy is a luchador, afterall. A hero of the people. And here I am making his life complicated by demanding he not do what he feels forced to do.

So I’ve got to offer an alternative. Another means of revenue. If he doesn’t need meth, he can give up some information to me.

I ponder. I can’t think of anything. I’m poor as hell, eating off a spool for meals. Shit, I don’t even have a phone from this decade. All of my footwear but my bat-boots are Salvation Army purchases. What do I possibly have to offer?

As if to return my polite and patient gesture, Bane comes walking out of the apartment complex service exit. He’s coming right at me, wearing a red windbreaker since the weather is tickling at Fall today.

Seriously, full luchador mask in the open. He clearly owns these apartment blocks and has zero fear.

“Amigo…” he says with that panty-melting voice of his.

I scoot over on the bench to make room for him.

He nods and sits. It is his bench, afterall.

“You come here again, I hope, for a friendly rematch?”

I shiver at the thought. “No, no no no, I’m not pushing my luck. I was just thinking about how I could get you to give up your meth contacts in a way that would serve us both.”

His steely eyes examine me through his mask. “Not the world’s greatest detective, eh?”

“I’m working on it. Being a detective requires patience, luck, and a lot of resources. And I’ve only got one of those things.”

He’s working out which of the three it is I have.

“How about a deal?” I offer. “An exchange. You steer me toward your meth supplier for….”

“For?”

“For whatever it is you want that is fair.”

God, please don’t ask for a cage match in front of everyone in these apartments.

Standing up, he begins to pace in front of me. He is bigger in the open air. I eye his knee that he favors, knowing that is the first place I’m hitting him if things go bad.

He is genuinely thinking. I like this. It means he doesn’t want to deal meth in the first place, like I figured.

But then he shrugs.

“Can you fix Gotham? Not just for white people hitting meth, but for my people, too?”

“I’m trying, man.”

He shakes his head. “What will you do for my people? College students hunted by ICE? Kids abandoned because their parents are deported? Kids who give up the gang life to join me, and are unable to get clear of their old affiliations?”

“I don’t know what I can do. About any of that. But…” I linger for a moment, emphasizing confidence in my offer that I honestly don’t have. “If you do this for me, if you get me info on your meth supplier, I will owe you. I will owe you a favor. A seriously large favor.”

I expect him to guffaw at my desperate bid. I’m offering him a macaroni portrait in exchange for a Dutch work of art, but he hasn’t scoffed. Yet.

“Favors are good between luchadors…”

That’s right! He’s always in the ring. He likes the story of this, the narrative!

“The shit that went down last night? All over Gotham?” I say.

His attention returns to me.

“I’m the Batman. You’ve seen. That was me in the Batmobile not far from here.”

Slowly, he nods. “I had heard a military truck gave the police some trouble. Saw an overturned SUV come morning. Police were all over it… Forensics. They want you badly, Amigo.”

Perhaps I pushed too far. Maybe he’ll back off a deal with me if he fears there will be heat.

“Having a man with cojones owing me a favor could be very useful, if he is wise enough to keep himself alive.”

“I lived through taking down Joker’s operation, you know.”

That seems to seal the deal. I can tell from his shoulders settling. He walks back to the bench. Standing over me, he offers his hand.

I take it, and we shake.

“Penguin Power, Light, and Water. They drive maintenance trucks all over the city with impunity for obvious reasons. Go to their headquarters downtown in the commercial district. Somewhere in that building is where their meth cache is, but be careful. The man himself lives there.”

Holy. Shit.

“The power company?”

“Correct.”

I stand up, so excited that I’m vibrating. But a deal is a deal.

“So, for that favor…” He’s going to need to contact me somehow to call it in. “Just call Wayne Junkyard. Ask for Lucius. Tell him you need our special tow truck and give a location and time. I’ll be there. But…”

“But what?” I see his shoulders rise, ready to strike. He’s afraid I’m going to renege.

“But please don’t ask me to do anything wrong. Like, unethical or cruel.”

Placing a massive hand across his chest, his posture mocks offense. “Do I look unethical or cruel to you?”

*************************************************************

I don’t even take the bus home. I go straight to Penguin PLW headquarters. It is a tall, black building in the fanciest part of downtown. The company mascot, an emperor penguin, is represented by a bronze statue on the sidewalk out front.

It is close to midnight, now, but I can still see lights on in some windows. Peeking into the lobby through the front, I see a security guard at the front desk playing on his phone. The lobby is all brass, marble, and light fixtures. A portrait of a fat dude in a top hat takes up an entire wall.

From the looks of him, he is the very definition of rich fatcat.

I now have a specific face to pummel.

“Hey, move along…” a strolling security guard barks at me. “Lounge ain’t open today.”

“Lounge?”

He points up. The top of the building is domed glass. “Iceberg Lounge. Only weekends.”

“Oh, I wasn’t here for the…” I put together pretty quickly that if the fatcat owns the whole building he either leases or even owns the nightclub as well. It might be easier for me to get into that than the offices.

The guard’s staring at me, wondering if he needs to call the cops.

I’m staring at me, in the reflection of the building’s glass, wondering if I need to go clothes shopping.


	6. Chapter 6

The Salvation Army opens at 10 am and we are there at the door. Al, Uncle Lucius, and me. Honestly, I could have come on my own but Uncle Lu insisted he help me pick out a suit and Al scoffed at the idea, claiming I needed some nice plaid.

I fear I am but a mannequin for these two men. If I can get out of here without spending eighty bucks, I’ll be happy.

“He’s got to look sharp and financially prosperous enough to get into Iceberg,” Uncle Lu says. “That place hosts galas for charity as well as a number of prestigious balls and functions.”

Al rolls his eyes, spying a leather jacket as soon as we enter. “It’s a club, they need to please the women in the club to keep ‘em coming back. Nothing pleases women like a dude.” He darts off, sorting through the jeans section.

It becomes a tug of war.

Both men, their fashion ideologies radically opposed, bounce me back and forth into the dressing room like a racket ball.

Al wants alligator shoes.

Uncle Lu pushes for a button-up vest.

Al demands a big belt buckle shaped like Texas, to which I’ve never been.

Uncle Lu insists corduroy is back in, especially for sport coats.

During all of this, I spy her. She’s here! Catwoman is here! She doesn’t have the hood on, and in the full fluorescent lights of the store she looks mildly miserable, but it is certainly her. Her predatory movement is gone, the sexiness giving way to the misery of retail. The only echo of her real persona is her thumb-ring spoon.

Dressed in a blue shirt and khaki slacks, she organizes a distant rack of used children’s toys in plastic freezer bags. Under the light I can see the pale purple highlights as she pulls back her hair behind her ear. She has piercings all the way up her lobe; little silver hoops.

I, uh, did not realize she could actually get hotter.

Al pokes me in the gut. “Boy, what-” he spies her. “...oh.” Looking around conspiratorially, Al confirms that Uncle Lu is digging through the leather belts. “So uh, she seems nice,” he says awkwardly. “Say, yer getting deep into yer twenties, now. Right Bruce?”

“Uh, twenty one.” Where is he going with this?

“So, I’m… I’m sorry. As a man in yer life, it was my responsibility to uh… have a chat with yeh, but I’m pretty sure I missed that boat…”

Oh no. Really? Here?

He places a leathery hand on my shoulder. “I had thought of taking yeh to Vegas, to… yeh know… get some experience but it just slipped by. And uh… that one girl in those GED classes yeh seemed sweet on so I didn’t want to cause no trouble.”

He’s talking about Valerie. She was nice, just somewhat empty. She liked pop music and reality TV and we had nothing in common except her desire to be fingered and my desire to finger her.

And before you haul off and judge me, YES. Yes, damnit. Batman is a virgin. So what? I’ve been building up to this for too long. Lifting weights, practicing fighting, training, building the Batmobile; these things were my priority. Have you beaten up riot cops? Fought Bane? Been shot?

Yeah. Maybe one of those, but certainly not all. So stuff it. No judging me.

With nearly misty eyes, Al leans in close to me. I can smell his morning cigarette. It is the most affection I’ve ever seen the man display.

“I’m sorry, boy. I’m sorry I never got yer dick wet.”

Wow.

Uncle Lu is walking up, slacks folded over his arms, but he sees the tender moment between Al and me and hangs back a moment. Catwoman catches his eye as she pushes a stocking cart and he approaches her. “Miss, can you take these garments to the back dressing room? The one on the left.”

My god, he thinks this is a proper men’s clothing store.

She blinks at him.

Then drifts her eyes to me.

Then to misty, loving Al.

THIS is how Batman dies.

She smirks. And then I see the look of recognition on her face. Not for Batman, but for the lurching goober at the pawn shop she saw in the door reflection.

“Sure thing,” she nods, relieving Uncle Lu of his polyester burden. Her predatory walk has returned.

Light-headed, I return to the dressing booth. I can’t even meet her eyes as she sets up clothes on a nearby rack. “Will that be all for you?”

I see her nametag. Selina with an ‘i.’ I imagine saying it, whispering it to her, the tip of my tongue leaping from the top of my mouth at the start of the ‘s.’

I have to speak. Say something, dammit.

“Uh, yeah. Thank you. That’s all we need. Thanks.”

Her eyes widen.

My voice. SHIT.

She turns to Uncle Lu. “There are some more belts over there,” she directs. “On that side. And my cart has several pairs of shoes that are a size thirteen that might fit.”

With genuine appreciation, Lu walks off.

Al, however, does not require any redirection. He immediately sees the pleading in my eyes and scampers down an isle of kitchenware, providing me some privacy with Catwoman.

“So, you drive your truck here?” she coyly asks.

“Man, I need to figure out a way to disguise my voice or something.”

“You can talk all raspy. Or, in the kid’s section, is a transformer mask that alters your voice. Maybe put it in your bat mask?”

She’s serious. Like, she’s invested in the Batman thing.

“So, you work here?” I ask like a dumbass. World’s greatest detective.

She nods. “Kinda. I got caught and now I’m doing time,” she says without a shred of shame. “But I like getting out, and if good stuff shows up in the donation box, I snag it.”

She looks at the pile of pants. “You’re about a 38 inch waist?”

I get tingly knowing she has been looking at my body.

Realizing that I’m not going to respond, she continues. “These are kind of fancy for beating up cops, are you going somewhere nice?”

I lean in, relieved at the change of topic. “I’ve got to get into Iceberg Lounge. That building is where they distribute meth all throughout Gotham.”

“So… you are…” she looks at Uncle Lu’s pant selection. “traveling back into the 90’s to infiltrate the C&C Music Factory?”

She’s right. I deflate. No doorman would let me walk into a nightclub. I’ll have to climb in some other way. Maybe through the air ducts or I can rappel up the side of the building. Or I could sneak in as a delivery guy, hide in a cabinet until the rest of the offices close, and then-

“You need a hot chick,” she says. “to get into a place like Iceberg. They’ll let a dweeb like you in if I’m on your arm.”

******************************************************************

It took some creative work, but I managed to line the inside of new sports coat with several small ratchet straps and a short pry bar. If I’m going to explore this building I’m going to need to climb places and crack open locked doors.

The weekend comes and I’m waiting by the bronze penguin outside of the Penguin building. Looking up, I see small spotlights rolling around through the clouds, announcing that Saturday night is open for business. The sidewalk is packed with a line of people, men doused in cologne wearing their most starched button-ups and women rocking their least comfortable heels and best eyeliner.

And here she comes… thigh-high boots with thick heels, a pleated plaid skirt that hints at marvelous things, a boned corset, and a velvet choker with a silver kitty cat dangling from it. Her hair is up and back, showing off her neck and perfect ears, and her eye shadow is smokey like the night sky through a campfire. 

The brass penguin and I cling each other to keep from falling over.

She rewards me further with a wyly smile, her lips glossy purple.

“You’re welcome,” she says, slinking her arm into mine. I’ve got a hundred pounds on her, and yet she is entirely in control and I find myself gliding to the front of the line. She pulls me directly in front of the doorman.

He blinks at me, and is about to tell us that there is a line, but then he sees her.

“Oh, hey Selina.” He steps aside, letting us through. “Let me know how the night goes.”

Wait, what?

As we enter the lobby, her boots clomping off the marble, she whispers “Ken gets a cut of whatever I lift from here. I get to come by once a month and work the place.”

The brass elevator doors open and we step in with several other couples. The men eye her first, then me.

Back off, guys.

We ride in silence. I can’t recall the last time I’d been in an elevator. We travel to the top floor, the 27th, and when the doors open we are hit with a wall of thumping music, low-lighting, and clinking glasses. The whole place is decorated to look like the inside of an arctic cavern, walls aglow with dim blue light.

Three men approach us in tuxedos, offering us little metal bracelets to put on. They have codes for our drink orders, I’m thinking.

The other couples have to give up their credit cards, but our guy just nods to Selina and lets us in.

I’m guessing he gets a cut, too.

“Don’t order drinks,” she says. “your bracelet won’t work.”

Fine by me. Never cared for drinking anyway.

The layout for the club is somewhat as I expected. The elevator banks and kitchen are at the center, allowing the guests to fill in the perimeter where they can always see over the city. The windows are large, accommodating VIP sections on raised balconies   
overlooking the dance floor and DJ booth.

This party is already hopping with people sweating on the dancefloor or carrying drinks back to their friends and dates. Waitresses and waiters dodge between everyone, trays high.

There are little brass penguins everywhere with tophats and umbrellas.

I am completely overwhelmed. There is so much noise and so many elbows and shouts and thumps from speakers that my head swims.

“Well, what now?” Selina asks me.

Looking back to the elevator, I just want to run.

But I have a job to do. Can we get into the kitchen? Find a service elevator to get back down? How do we get into the offices?

I hear a laugh, a disturbing laugh like a jackal. I’ve heard it before. Frantically searching about I see him, sitting in a wheelchair. Joker, obnoxious Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts. He’s in the VIP section, laughing hysterically. His gold teeth glitter from the dancefloor lights and he smacks a nearby waitress’s ass when she tries to dip by.

His pregnant girlfriend glares at him miserably. She at least has tried to look nice in a maternity dress, but she clearly would rather be somewhere else with her man.

“Yeah, that’s him,” Selina says. “Stop looking in his direction.”

But he knows what I need.

“Makes sense that he’s here,” I say. “Given he is high in the operation. I bet they sell here, too.”

Selina nods. “People aren’t allowed to smoke it here because of the smell, but anyone can easily get other things.”

A simple, wreckless plan forms in my mind. I look to Selina, almost losing my train of thought at the sight of her holding my arm, looking up at me. But I’ve got to focus. I want to tell her ‘no stealing’ or to ‘be good’ but it is pretty clear Catwoman will do as   
Catwoman does.

“I’ve got to check out the bathroom,” I say.

With a gentle squeeze, I take my arm from her and dart off to the men’s room.

Turns out there are several bathrooms in the club. There are two main bathrooms for the majority of guests right next to the kitchen. Washing my hands, I see a waiter walk in and use the urinal, so that confirms that there likely isn’t a separate bathroom for staff.

But after some wandering and peeking, I confirm that there are separate bathrooms on top of the kitchen. They are smaller and can only be reached by the VIP sections. That is where Joker will go to pee if he keeps drinking fruity drinks like he is. He’ll wheel himself over there and once inside, I’ll lock it and he is all mine.

I should have a few minutes once alone with him, too. People will assume the door is locked because either sex or drugs, so any other men will hopefully just use the common guest bathrooms.

A few minutes alone should be all I need. Hopefully.

But there is a tuxedoed woman blocking the VIP staircase, and she looks grim. Someone way too drunk for the hour tries to get by her, but she checks his bracelet and sends him packing.

I look around for Selina. Maybe this woman also gets a cut? But I can’t find her. Catwoman is likely slipping around among the crowd, prowling for prey.

Maybe I can get someone from the VIP section to invite me up? A horrible idea crosses my mind, and I feel gross thinking it. But it is all I’ve got.

Moving through the gauntlet of a dancefloor, I dodge flailing arms and stomping heels until I’m just under the railing of the VIP balcony. Right near Joker’s pregnant girlfriend. I can still hear Joker’s jackal laugh as he is chatting with several other men, each wearing track suits while drinking directly out of bottles.

I clear my throat. Man, I hope I don’t get kicked out.

“Hey! Congratulations!” I call up to Joker’s pregnant girlfriend.

She tears her eyes from Joker and looks around, her school-yard pigtails flopping on her shoulders.

I give a wave up to her, like the Romeo I am.

Looking down at me, I see she isn’t sporting her clown makeup, only the tattoo red dots on her checks remain. But instead she is glittered into oblivion. I fear for her lungs.

Her grim face cracks into a massive smile. “D’aw, why thank you!” she beams. Her voice is just as shrill as when she saved her man at the meth trailer park. It seems she has too verbal tones; pure joy and pure rage.

“Boy or a girl?” I ask.

Her smile gets even more manic. “We’re waiting until the day to find out. Ya got kids?”

I look around for Selina. “Well, don’t tell her I told you, but we just found out. We’re so nervous!”

“Oh!” Preggers rolls out of her chair and beckons me around to the stairs.

Bingo.

She shoves aside the woman guarding the VIP section and reaches out a hand to me. I take it and we shake.

“Harley!” she says. “Come tell me everything!”

“Bill.”

I feel awful. I do. She is lonely and wants someone of her own to speak with. Additionally, being pregnant with that wiry shit as the father has got to be miserable.

“Oh, you’re a big un!” Harley says. “Poor girl gunna have a watermelon of a baby.” Leading me to her corner of the balcony, Joker’s red-tattooed eyes latch onto me. The guy ignores her until she has her attention elsewhere.

Yeah, that’s right you meth head. I’m going to pleasure your baby-mama right in front of you by listening to her.

“Thought of any names?” I ask, sitting across from her. Catching her sideways glance to Joker, it is clear she wants him to see us talking. Harley might be playing her boy for some jealousy.

“I like Isabell for a girl an Buford for a boy,” she’s got the heaviest Brooklyn accent I’ve ever heard. It’s almost stereotypical.

“You from New York?”

Man, her smile just keeps getting bigger and more manic. “Yeppers! Brooklyn, as if that isn’t obvious,” she rolls her eyes playfully. “So, ya two married, or gunna get married?”

“Oh, the mother? Well, she doesn’t want to get married, I don’t think. Makes me nervous.” I’m aiming for the right buttons.

She deflates a bit. “Yeah, my Jay doesn’t want to get married, neither. I feel it would be better for the baby but he claims he don’t believe in marriage. Like it is just an institution. Dat we should pick each other anew every day.”

“Well, I get that…” I concede despite it clearly being a load of shit. “but personally, I’d feel a lot more secure for me and our kid if she married me like I asked.”

Harley’s emotions are all over her face. They are obvious, and Joker is now laser-beam focused on us ignoring his tracksuit groupies.

“Yeah… I wish Jay would commit like dat. Even if he doesn’t believe in marriage, our baby gets a lot of benefit, ya know? Legally an stuff. And emotionally. Developmentally, two parents together provide a strong cushion for a child’s development during the early formative years.”

Yeah. I know.

My moment of distraction makes me blind to the track team as they approach me. There are three of them, each surrounding me in the chair.

With a look of mild annoyance, Harley tries to shoo them away with her hand. “Boys, we’re talking here.”

“Joker wants us to get him a drink,” One says.

“Yeah. Let’s pick something out.”

It is clear they are going to drag me off somewhere.

I look reassuringly to Harley. “Can I bring you back a water or something?”

She sadly shakes her head. “Naw, you just take care of you.”

I get up. These guys aren’t quiet my size, but I can tell from the cauliflower ears and stitch scars that they are scrappers. Maybe they are the trashbag boys from the meth park?

“I’ve got to hit the bathroom, first,” I offer.

They take the bait. One of them even smiles.

I walk in first, leaving the door open behind me. We are the only ones here. Walking over to the mirror, I wash my hands and give them time to fill in and lock the door behind them.

In classic intimidation fashion, they just leer at me without saying anything. They are waiting for me to be alarmed, or ask ‘what is going on’ or make some kind of plea.

But pulling my small pry bar from under my coat, I take the initiative. That is the difference between me being trapped in here with them versus them being trapped in here with me.

I clock the first one as hard as I can upside the temple. His knees lock and he falls flat onto the tile without a sound.

The other two are on me, shocked and enraged. Each takes an arm of mine, but that only leaves them open for my teeth. A cauliflower ear is easy to bite off, for the record. He lets go of me when I spit it back out at him.

I stab the remaining guy in the shoulder with the pry bar. It doesn’t break the skin or his tracksuit, but his arm goes slack. Wide open, I clock him in the cheek hard enough to spin him into a stall.

First thing is first, I check the guy who went down on his face. He’s breathing fine, but out cold and his nose is sideways. I tug out several ratchet straps from inside my sport coat and Bind his wrists behind his back.

The guy clutching where his ear used to be is now over his shock, looking for a bit of revenge. As he steps at me I stab down onto his toes with my pry bar. A fancy sneaker does shit against hundreds of pounds of metal crunching your toes.

He cries out, falling backward into the hand dryer. We’re making a lot of ruckus, but with the noise of the club I’m certain that we won’t be disturbed.

The guy in the stall stumbles out, his one responsive arm ready to jab at me. With all my spine and weight, I kick him in the gut sending him back into the stall. I’ll get to him last.

One-ear is now openly sobbing, trying to crawl over his bound comrad for the door. I grab him by his good foot, tug him away, and twist his ankle violently until I hear it pop. I should feel sympathy from the whimper he makes, but I really don’t. Two more ratchet straps bind his ankles and hands. Wadding up a bunch of wet paper towels, I make a ball and shove it in his mouth. A third ratchet strap keeps it there.

Now the last guy was smart enough to stay in the stall this time. He’s wide-eyed, feet ready to kick me away. His only hope is that he can outlast me, tire me out, make me give up and leave.

But I stand at the stall door, catching my breath. I slip my pry bar back into my coat and adjust my shirt, making sure it is still tucked in. Then I give him an insincere smile.

“So what drink were you guys going to buy me?” I ask.

He shakes his head frantically. “Man, just chill.”

Chill…

I look down at the white tile and see the blood from the fight. The grout will be stained.

Leaping in with sudden force, I avalanche on him. I’m seeing red. My knuckles take turns on his head as he flails to defend himself. Soon he is too weak to stop me, and he resigns to the beating I’m giving.

I stop before he passes out. Flipping him over like a ragdoll, I shove his head into the toilet. Water splashes everywhere as he is fighting for air. I pull him up by the hair, my teeth in his face as spit flies out of my mouth.

“How is the meth moved? Out of this tower? How? Where? The vending machines get it from where?” I roar. The tight bathroom echoes my voice like a thunderous god of a cruel religion.

“Chill!”

He really needs to stop saying that word. I shove him down back into the toilet to contemplate it a bit.

Then I bring him up.

“How many fingers does a man really need?” I grip his limp hand, zero in on his pinky, and snap it sideways. As he howls I shove his head back into the toilet again.

He is sputtering as I bring him up, lungs sloshing toilet water. “Meth. Now. Give it to me!” I command.

“Basement!” he chokes. “Storage area!”

I give him a good-bye bonk on the head and straighten up. The floor is slippery with blood and water. I ratchet strap the last guy to the pipes and step over the wreckage of the track suitors. Digging through their pockets, I pull out their phones and dial Gordon’s pager number from the only one I can open.

Here’s hoping he calls back fast.

Sliding it into my pocket, I root around in the bathroom. The sinks are fancy and have cabinets with extra towels and napkins. Picking up a large white towel, I exit the bathroom and place it over the doorknob. Hopefully staff and guests won’t dare open it for a bit, presuming fun is being had inside.

Returning to the obnoxious din, the water on my slacks are hidden by the low lighting of the club. I confidently walk back to the VIP balcony. Joker and Harley are snuggled up next to each other, looking out over the dance floor. She couldn’t be happier, her hand in his. Looks like she knows exactly how to get her man’s attention.

They are shocked when I pull up a chair and sit across from them, blocking their view of the city.

Their eyes drift to my knuckles. I forgot to wash my hands when I left and they are bruised and bloody.

“This is my city,” I say, looking the demon clown in his eyes.

Harley goes pale, terrified.

Joker is looking back to the bathroom for his boys.

I reach out, grip his wheelchair, and bring him in close. Maybe he can smell the blood of his guy’s ear on my breath.

“This is my city. Say it.”

He stammers in disbelief. Then grins. “This is my city,” he hisses at me, daring me to do something.

Harley is pleading with me not to hurt him, her pigtails swaying everywhere as she frantically shakes her head.

The phone rings. “Just a moment. I’m sorry,” I say, feigning politeness. “I have to take this.”

I answer. It’s Gordon.

“Yeah, kid?”

“Basement of the Penguin building, storage room. I’m sitting right here with the guy who handles it, too. Joker.”

Silence from the other end. “How long can you keep him there?”

“As long as I have to. But I’ll need police in the club. Now.”

Joker is now chuckling. “Da fuck, man. I gots friends, bitch.”

Gordon clearly heard that. “On my way.”

I hang up and sit back. We glare at each other, then I turn to Harley. “Isabell is a lovely name,” I say.

She looks at me like I’m a monster.

Maybe I am.

A half hour goes by. All the music sounds the same. Several times a waitress approaches us to take an order, but I politely wave them away.

I remember that Selina is out there, working the crowd. It brings me back down to earth. My heart calms at the thought of her, and my knuckles finally register how much they hurt. But I don’t dare take my eyes off of Joker.

And he doesn’t turn away from me. Those red-inked eyeballs, bulging out of his pale face. His gaunt, sunken cheeks contain a mixture of sneer and mocking laugh. I pity this kid who gets this thing as a father.

I think of Harley. When the police come, they’ll scoop her up, too. They’ll link her to the trailer park and the whole operation. Her kid will be born in prison.

“Hey,” I say to her as sincerely as possible. “if you leave now, you might dodge getting arrested.”

She blinks.

“Isabell Buford shouldn’t be born behind bars.”

Joker snaps his head in her direction. Gripping her arm tight, he holds her fast.

“Think, man. That’s your kid. Let her go. I won’t look for her. She can have the kid and even visit you.”

“Skin yoooouuuuu, bitch. Skin you aliiiiive,” he seethes.

That’s when I see Gordon. I am beyond relieved. I feel rescued.

Flashing his badge, he tromps by the woman guarding the VIP section and walks over to us. If he is disgusted by Joker at all, his passive face doesn’t show it.

“Both of them?” he asks.

I point to Harley. “Not her. She’s just here.”

“They ain’t together?” he cocks an eyebrow. He knows I’m lying.

But I don’t care. “Nope.”

Two other cops follow Gordon up. Both detectives. One pulls out handcuffs. They pry Joker off of Harley, cuff him, and roll him away to the VIP elevator. Gordon stays behind, but doesn’t bother taking a statement from Harley. He sends her away.

“The bathroom your work, too?” he asks, voice raised over the music.

I nod. “They jumped me,” I said.

“Oh, did they?”

I’m feeling more disgusted with myself by the minute. “Did you find the storage room?”

He nods. “Nearly a ton of meth among other things. An interesting computer setup, too. I’ll let you look at it once everyone has their turn.”

I see Selina. She is intently watching me from a small booth across the club. She’s sitting with two men. One leans in to kiss her neck and she subtly moves away. He gets the hint, and eases up.

“I’ve got to go,” I say. I hand Gordon the phone I stole.

Gordon nods as he begins searching the phone.

Quickly I head down the VIP stairs and Selina must have seen the pleading in my eyes. Politely she excuses herself from the men, accepting both their phone numbers gracefully.

We walk toward each other. I just had to be near her. My knees are wobbly, which is normal post adrenaline, but something else is stronger. I'm feeling the urge to cry.

White tile.

She sees me teetering, and clutches my arm with her nails.

“Someplace quiet?” she offers.


	7. Chapter 7

I don’t have a phone, but Selina does and she calls us an Uber. The driver, a short man with a picture of his kids on his dash, weaves through the collected police vehicles gathering in front of Penguin tower to pick us up.

“Denny’s” she says to him.

“That rough a night, huh? Denny’s is for licking wounds and planning revenge,” after that he drives us in silence.

I watch Gotham roll by through the window.

‘Just chill…’ he said, hands up while panting frantically. He was terrified.

I wipe my knuckles on my pants, ruining them.

Selina stops me with a gentle touch to my arm.

We arrive, she thanks the driver, and holding my arm we enter Denny’s. I’m pretty sure she is holding me up.

Finding a booth, a tired waitress brings us coffee and menus, then wanders off to roll silverware.

I’m starving, but I’m spiraling into a shame circle so profound that I can’t even look at the menu.

“I’ll order you breakfast,” Selina says.

I want to say I’m freaked out, that I’m shaky inside from the adrenaline burn. That Gordon could have arrested me for the men in the bathroom, or turned on me and arrested me for the trailer park.

But my throat can’t decide if it wants to speak or sob, and she doesn’t press.  
The waitress comes by and Selina orders for us both. She gets me all the protein a breakfast can permit, in a skillet. And orders herself a milkshake and caesar salad.

In silence we sip our coffee, her eyes gently checking me over.

“I never should have asked for curly fries.” I say without realizing it.

“You didn’t,” she says. “I got you breakfast.”

“No, not… not that, uh,” I hesitate. Know what? Might as well. “I never should have asked my parents to get me curly friends. We were at the drive in. The Hampton one that closed down? They went into the food booth while I sat in the car, watching the old Zorro movie. And some guy shot them while holding it up. They walked in and surprised him.”

Selina doesn’t react. Just listens.

“I heard the gunshots, but they just didn’t register for me. I thought it was a car backfiring or part of the movie. After a while I got impatient and went to look for my curly fries… and found them surrounded by people.”

She slowly reaches a hand out to me. I take it, desperate for a lifeline. I can barely see her beauty through my welling tears.

“Someone had grabbed the guy, and a bunch of people had held him down. And I thought, if I had been there I could have done that. Maybe faster.”

She rubs her thumb, the one with the spoon ring, gently across my ravaged knuckles.

“And that’s why. I’m just… flailing at… I’m trying…”

That’s it, my throat finally changes its mind and decides to go full cry.

She gets up, comes over, and sits next to me. Holding my arm, she rests her head on my shoulder. My god, this feels good. Not just being close to her, but just to cry. I’m always so worried about crying in front of Uncle Lu because he lost a sister and I’m so afraid to cry in front of Al because he lost his best friends.

But I feel so safe, for once.

Sniffling, I compose myself. She hands me a bin of napkins and I nod my gratitude as I unplug the gooey ocean pouring out of my face. I wad up the offending napkins.

“Sorry,” I say.

She nods slowly.

“I swear I’m not looking for pity sex,” I profess, trying to crack a joke.

“You would never get it,” she answers, dead serious.

Our food arrives and she goes back to her seat. At first, I’m wounded that she left but I also get to look at her this way and watch her eat. There’s no way to lose when she’s around, it seems.

She’s a dainty eater, nibbing consistently and surely while I do my best not to shovel my food into my face like usual. The coffee might be awful, or great, I just can’t tell. Or care, at this point.

“Well?” I ask through puffy eyes. “Your turn?”

She shakes her head. “No, tonight isn’t about me. But I am listening if you want to talk about what happened tonight.”

I nod. “I uh, got in a fight in the bathroom. Got one of the guys to tell me where to look in the building, and then I called the police on his phone. A good person I could trust.”

She listens.

“And then they came and arrested Joker. And let his girlfriend go, luckily.”

Selina glances at my knuckles. “I saw you mouthing that Gotham is ‘your city’ a lot. What does that mean?”

I see something sceptical in her eyes and I’m afraid of her judgement. I fear how accurate it might be. Answering carefully, I continue. “I won’t let people like Joker or whomever own Gotham. I won’t let them take more innocent parents away like mine.”

“So, you’re responsible for Gotham now?”

“Well, not alone, but I want to do what I can where I can.”

“How many homeless shelters are you volunteering at, Bruce?”

The question blind-sides me.

“... none.”

“Any retirement homes you visit to play boardgames with the forgotten elderly? Or do you host any kid’s programs? Act as a big brother? Put money back into your community?”

I’m mildly incensed. Wasn’t she just holding me?

“Do you?” I fire back.

“Yes,” she answers without blinking. “when I get the chance.”

I remember how she didn’t take that last bill the pawn shop owner offered her. I also wonder how big a cut she offers those who let her into back doors. I bet it is bigger than any other cut they’d be offered.

Mercilessly, she continues. “But you spent however much time and money and resources welding together a tank, a bullet-proof suit, just to beat your knuckles bloody.”

I want to protest, argue that they had cornered me into the bathroom. I wanted to counter with the truth of the matter, but I know how much a part of me enjoyed it. They were locked in there with ME. I was the one, not Chill or anybody else, but I was the one who got to spill blood on the tile. I got to stain the grout red. I got to have some power.

Submitting to her observation, I slowly nod.

She is taken a bit aback. She was expecting me to argue it. But I’ve been alone enough in my skin to know me.

Her face softens. She continues nibbling at her salad, a lucky cherry tomato gets the full tour of her mouth before vanishing. She then begins poking at her phone.

Looking to kindle conversation, just to hear her voice, I remember how Mom and Dad always talked about their day. So… I ask.

“Did uh, you do well in Iceberg?”

Yeah, Batman is asking if Catwoman got a good haul.

A prideful look of mischief crosses her face. Reaching under her skirt, she pulls out two watches, a college ring with diamonds, and a silver billfold.

I touch the ring. It’s warm.

“They don’t search you there,” she smiles.

There are a thousand witty things for me to say like ‘you’ll have to show me how you do that’ or ‘what kind of alice gear to do you have for panties’ or ‘what else do you have hiding in there’ or-

“I know where to look once you steal my heart.”

Boom. Hells yeah. A good one.

She smiles. “Pretty sure I got that already.” Looking her food over, she pulls a hundred from the billfold and puts the rest of her loot into her boot. “It’s on me.”

Oh no. She’s leaving? Please don’t leave.

She gets up, steps over to me, and kisses me on the cheek. “I like you, Bruce. You’re sexy in all the ways you don’t think you are…”

I sense a but, and it’s not the kind I’m hoping for.

Placing a hand on my raw knuckles, she sighs. “But every man who lashes out like this, especially out of love, ends up clocking me. Besides, I don’t do ‘projects.”

I’m a project? My god, to her, I am absolutely a project. I want to slide down the booth, under the table, and hide like a kid.

Offering me a reassuring smile, she dances her nails up my arm. “Doesn’t mean you won’t be seeing me around, though.”

With that she walks out, her hips doing a little extra work to wave goodbye to me. In the parking lot she climbs into another Uber and gives me a gentle smile from the back seat as she drives off.

I wave back, telling her how much I love her with my eyes.

My god, even rejection from her feels so damned good.

*************************************************************

Quietly, I spend the next week actually working around the junkyard. Al and I organize some small engine parts, strip the wiring out of a bunch of stereo equipment, and we process nearly four hundred pounds of dead batteries.

The busy work feels good.

Uncle Lu seems pleased to have a routine going again. He even splurges on some gardening soil and planting boxes. “Tomatoes are great in breakfast omelettes,” he says.

One morning, while greasing some bearings for resale, Uncle Lu calls for me from across the yard with the megaphone. He needs me in the office. He almost never does this, handling everything ‘Wayne’ by himself.

Jogging into the front office, I see Bane… as luchador as always, just standing there. The wood flooring of the small room creaks under his weight and his head nearly touches the wobbly ceiling fan.

“I’m here for that favor, amigo.”

Uncle Lu gives me a nervous look.

I walk Bane into the yard to chat. He explains that his apartments got raided by some unmarked ICE taskforce and a lot of his people were nabbed. Hoods-over-the-head and all that. It sounds like some gestapo shit.

“I need you, and most of all I need your truck,” he says. “My lawyer says that everyone, including the kids, are to be transferred out of state into a way station for indefinite hold. They rip out women’s wombs there. They separate children from their parents there. They rape there.”

I don’t dare interrupt.

Because I am already onboard. I don’t care about the legality of it. These are people of Gotham. My city, afterall. Their citizen status does not define their human status.

He lays out a wreckless plan for hitting the convoy as it leaves the compound West of Gotham. “You take out the front escort vehicle, ram it off the road, and my boys will jump the buses, handle the deputies, and then-”

I forget how much bigger he is than me for a second and interrupt. “No, guns will go off and people will die.”

I see him glare through his mask. “These deputies deserve to die!”

“Hey, I’m going to help, but your plan is garbage. They are being held at the Pine Ridge Detention Center West of Gotham, right?”

He nods slowly.

“Well, I did five months there for beating up a shitty kid. I know the building.”

“ICE took it over. It now has guard towers with snipers.”

I shrug. “Better snipers in a far off tower than shotguns in a prison bus with a lot of innocent people in the way.”

Thoughtfully, he nods. “I have two days. Two. Give me a better plan.”

Well, okay then.

I tell Bane to sit tight at the yard for an hour. Al looks after him, and to my amusement, they pass the time plunking on the banjo at the spool table. Then I get Uncle Lu and convince him to close the front office for just a bit as we run to the library.

While the detention center’s interior schematic isn’t publicly available, the land around it is well mapped. Uncle Lu and I get through what the Gotham library has and by examining the water lines, electrical lines, and roads we estimate the layout of the grounds.

I remember the inside pretty well. I also remember watching the monthly batch of kids get round up and taken to a multipurpose room to await transit whenever the feds came for them. It was usually the really bad kids in for gang stuff, rape, or murder.

These people might have done some shit under Bane. But I also know some of them probably didn’t. ICE doesn’t care these days, and if I get one innocent person free then I’ll let the guilty go, too. Ben Franklin would agree with me, since he was all ‘let one hundred guilty persons escape before letting one innocent suffer.’

Besides, I believe Bane when he says there are kids here.

“He wants to hit a convoy on the road?” Uncle Lu asks.

Honestly, he is showing more interest in this than I expected. “Yeah, but I told him my concerns with that. Shotguns and armed guards in the vehicles. If we hit the side of the building, get everyone out, we only worry about these two sniper towers…”

“Sniper fire is serious, Bruce…” Uncle Lu says, tapping his chin. “Don’t expect them to hold back. These are untested men, indoctrinated and trained. They are desperate to prove they can kill.”

“I know, but smoke concealment fixes a lot of problems. Which we’ll have plenty of.”

Uncle Lu grins.

“I’ve gotta ask, Uncle Lu…” I tread carefully. “I thought you’d be against this one. This one is… big.”

“ICE has violated the 14th Amendment well beyond mere grievance. The ruling Plyer vs. Doe protects these children by proxy. And that is to say nothing of what Christ himself would think of this.”

I’d seen Uncle Lu reading the bible on occasion, but I always assumed he did so for some scholarly reason. Like, I’ve never seen him pray. But maybe he runs deeper than I thought.

How well do I truly know this man?

“I’m sorry, Uncle Lu… I’ve been so caught up lately. I really appreciate you here with me on this.”

Tipping his head down at me, he peers over his glasses. “The Batman is a vital icon for Gotham. It didn’t really sink in for me until Sheriff Gordon said you were all over the police departments as a boogeyman. The consequences of this will be ugly and permanent, but there is so much good we can do. And these people are desperate. Does Bane have a headcount?”

“He lost eighteen people,” I say. “But there will probably be more.”

Uncle Lu nods thoughtfully. “We’d still do this for one.”

*************************************************************

Bane brings eight of his guys in an unmarked white van to the yard. They stay for two days, sleeping in cots and cooking over fires, as we drill and train. I walk them all through the plan, how the smoke canisters will work, and what to expect from the snipers.

He’s got a coach bus ready to pull up to the road and gather everyone. Then he’ll book it for state lines, switch buses at several rest stops, all the while gradually shedding passengers to smaller vehicles. Bane’s got an entire network of relatives, friends, and compassionate people ready to help on that end.

“But getting everyone from the loading ramp to the road will be tough,” I say, pointing at the model of the ICE prison I’ve built from scrap. I tap a stick on the minifridge serving as the multipurpose room. “Everyone will be piled in here around four am.” Bane confirmed that from people who had already been processed through the center. “I’ll roll through this fence by the road with a snowplow to cut through, back up to the loading dock, and three of your boys will roll out and hook me up to the loading dock door.” I position the toy Hess truck I painted black. “I gun it, and pull it off. Then your three boys will usher everyone out and lead them to the road for the waiting charter bus.”

Everyone nods.

“As I’m plowing through the fence, Bane will use the launcher to fling smoke-canisters that Al made. These will give concealment on both sides, blocking clear shots from the sniper towers.”

I look to Bane. “Pick your three for my truck, and have them check the northeast of the yard. Have each of them pick out a refrigerator door. We’ll tweak them into ballistic shields against possible fire and they can just leave them there when we run.”

He gestures to three men and they run off into the yard to find their protection. Turning back to me, I can see a smile in Bane’s eyes. “Each of those men has a child there, Batman.”

He is thanking me for keeping my word.

“Just promise me no one dies,” I say.

*************************************************************

We roll out at two am. Al has his M14 in the passenger side of the Batmobile with me and his face is done up in striped camouflage. I can see the special ops soldier still within the old man. My hands are shaking on the wheel, but he is cool as a cucumber as he seats the rounds in his magazines. “Nothin keeps lead from coming yer way better than lead going their way,” he says. That and I need someone to shoot out any spotlights that come on.

Again, I was surprised that Uncle Lu didn’t protest to Al and his rifle coming along. But it was reiterated over and over by me to everyone that nobody dies.

The ride is long and quiet. Bane’s white van steadily follows me, his three refrigerator-door guys clinging to the crane of my tow truck. I keep checking my mirror to see if they are uncomfortable, but they are still as gargoyles.

Eventually, we arrive. I sigh, lowering my facemask. Al nods at me as I pull over, letting him out a quarter of a mile up the road from the facility. He gives me a thumbs-up and vanishes into some bushes. They don’t even rustle at his passing.

I switch over to the red lights.

The white van pulls up behind me. In the mirror I see Bane climb out the side, my launcher in his arms. He’s strapped with an awkward bandoleer of two-liter bottles filled with chems that will burst into smoke upon impact.

We wait a few minutes until, further down the road, we see the approaching headlights of the empty charter bus.

Bane nods at me in the mirror.

Everyone is a go.

I roll forward slowly, trying to keep the Batmobile’s engine from making too much noise.

Heh. Maybe an electric engine would have been a better choice over the Bentley W12. As I approach the fence of the ICE compound, the stretch closest to the road, I gun it.

The Batmobile roars like King Kong, ready to pound his chest. I’ve got everyone awake, now. One of the men on the back ‘whoops’ a battle charge.

Nah, the W12 is just fine for the Batmobile.

Barreling off the road, I see the three guys struggling to hang on. One drops his fridge door and it tumbles in the grass.

The snowplow, which I had Bane’s guys sharpen for hours, slices through the reinforced chain link fence like a hot knife through butter. Sparks fly all over.

I can’t hear any alarms going off over the engine, but the floodlights on the compound come on. A moment later, one explodes. Then the other. Al’s aim is terrifying.

I don’t see from where the smoke bottles come, but they land exactly where I needed them to; both sides of the loading dock.

I barrel down into the yard and turn the Batmobile alongside carefully. I don’t want my guys falling off.

Gun fire erupts from the nearest guard tower. I hear the rounds tinking off the Batmobile. The guys on the truck have their fridge doors high as I back up to the scrolling bay door.

All three get off. The smoke has gathered enough so that the snipers are just blind firing now. I’m guessing their magazines have thirty rounds because they are blowing through bullets as fast as they can.

They are trained, but clearly they aren’t battle hardened.

I hear Al’s M14 go off again, blowing out a spotlight in one of the towers. That sniper eases off, likely cowering.

One of the guys bangs on the back of the Batmobile. I’m all hooked up.

With a gentle press of the gas, not only does the loading bay door rip off, but its concrete fixings do, as well. The whole wall folds and comes with me, leaving two steel girders holding up the side of the multipurpose room.

There are rows of prisoners seated on the floor, cowering with their hands folded on their heads, wide-eyed. Some children, some elderly, all human.

At least six guards pour out swinging batons. One fires a taser fruitlessly into a fridge door as they charge my guys.

I leap out, detach my ballistic door, and charge through the smoke at them.

The ICE guys all see me, freeze, and run. Literally run. They haul ass back inside and Bane’s boys chase them through a security door.

“Rapido!” I shout, pointing toward the massive hole. “Rapido! Rapido!”

Bane’s guys join in as they usher everyone to their feet.

I spy a security camera, one of many, recording the room. I remember, as a kid here, glaring at them. I wanted whomever was in the booth watching to know how pissed I was. So I do the same here, I stand tall as a wave of people flee around me. I’m a rock in a desperate, weeping, turbulent ocean of liberation.

They will have this footage, this image, to share. Batman standing tall, making the world better. Be damned the legality of it.

I’m the last one to walk out, and I take my time doing it. This building is mine, now. I lived here briefly, but now it is mine. And I will only permit ICE or whomever to use it in my absence.

Stepping out, the smoke is dense. Everyone’s heads are low as the three guys squat-run everybody toward the open fence.

The guard tower starts opening up again. Then the other one. They are blind firing into these women and children. Nearly chipping a tooth in rage, I jump back in the Batmobile and roar it towards one of the towers. I don’t care that the clattering dock door is flying around behind me.

I hit the gas with every pound my leg can produce. The sniper is now focusing his fire on me, each round smacking into the windshield.

Ramming the tower, I’m thrown forward into the steering wheel. My bell is seriously rung. I can’t hear and my vision is a blurry, moving lump in slow motion.

But I hear a groan of steel, a popping of concrete, and down the tower tilts. Slow at first, then fast, as it collapses into the trees. The branches catch it, keeping it from hitting the ground and slowing its descent.

The sniper is likely alive, but I don’t have time to check. And honestly, I’m too jacked right now to care.

More sniper fire hits the Batmobile from the other tower, which is good. If they fire at me they aren’t firing at the people. I roll back, a chunk of the tower’s concrete foundation sliding off my hood, and drive out toward the fence behind everyone.

Through the smoke I see the charter bus loading rapidly. There are a few brief, sobbing reunions of joy. But there are also several people injured from running and gunfire. One appears dead, a bullet in her chest with her head flopped back, staring at the pre-dawn stars.

Her daughter clutches her, sobbing. Stunned, I bring the Batmobile to a rolling stop.

Bane taps on my ballistic door. Opening it, he hands me the spent launcher. He sees me staring at the poor girl, holding her dead mother. “She died free,” Bane said lovingly in his tenor voice. “Which is why she came to Gotham in the first place. Thank you, amigo.”

I’m on the brink of sobbing again. Another child, clutching their parent. Another gunshot. Good God, I-

Bane snatches me up in a bearhug, the kind I think only big brothers can give. Putting me down, he runs back to his white van.

“Batman!” Someone calls. I’m baffled at first, wondering who is calling out my moniker.

It’s Al, charging up to me. “Get in an drive!” he shouts, climbing into the passenger side. I obey, get in, and gun it down the road. In the mirror I see the charter bus pull off, heading south without its lights on. The van takes off down a dirt road into farmland.

And we speed off back toward Gotham.


	8. Chapter 8

Once home, I flop in bed. The trailer seems bigger than normal somehow. I see the memory of my Dad in the kitchen making pancakes for Mom and me.

I could really go for some pancakes.

Maybe I could have armored the prisoners? Had them carry fridge doors, too? Maybe my plan was bad in the first place. Maybe Bane was right. We should have hit the convoy. If we did that, maybe no one would have died.

A knock comes at the trailer door. In my boxers and grease-stained t-shirt, I stumble to it and open up.

Uncle Lu is standing there, breakfast on a tray. “It’s noon,” he says.

I nod. Barefoot, I take my seat at the spool table. “Where’s Al?” I ask.

“Still sleeping. But I wanted you to see something, first…” Uncle Lu pulls a folded newspaper from under the back of his belt and unfolds it for me. There Batman stands, glaring into a security camera in full gear and glory. People running around him, caught in a blurry mid-frame photo, as they flee to freedom.

I slowly nod, reading. Turns out I’m a domestic terrorist. The Department of Justice is after me. Terms like ‘task force’ and ‘reprisal’ are punctuated by chest-thumping. The president himself promises to send in federal authorities to contain Gotham’s apparent uprising against ‘law and order.’

“Doesn’t he mean ‘rule of law,’ Uncle Lu?” I ask. “Law and Order is a TV show.”

Uncle Lu nods, sitting next to me. “I’m pretty sure our president has never read the Federalist papers, Bruce. But he sure has seen Law and Order at some point.

I flip through the paper. On the second page I see a giant question mark like the ones on those Riddler people’s masks. This has my attention. Reading on, it seems this Riddler fellow is gathering a lot of steam among the mentally disturbed and emotionally vulnerable. He drops detailed, cryptic packages of information for his people to interpret. Sometimes they imply a pizza place has an underground kiddie dungeon and other times Riddler flat out states someone is a satanic monster. Me, for instance.

Yeah, Batman drinks blood for a kiddie-raping cabal pursuing a new world order. Huh. My guess is this Riddler just nabs whatever people have value as a symbol and he spins it with deeper lore. He is weaving an absurd, implausible tale of morbid hilarity… but then I look back at photos of his gathering crowds.

“They are overtaking protests for legit social justice movements,” Uncle Lu says, despondency in his voice. “riding their wave of energy.”

“Ew,” is all I manage, closing the paper up. I dig into my omelette.

“Will we hear from Bane again?”

“Man, I hope not. We’re even. But I’m… pretty sure… pretty sure Gordon might bring me in for this one. He may not have a choice. The Justice Department is involved.”

Uncle Lu sighs. “Ironic, the Justice Department dispensing injustice. Lawful injustice, but injustice.”

I think for a bit. Maybe Al and Uncle Lu should leave. Get a hotel somewhere and lay low. Or, I should call Gordon and have him come in for me. I can give him a full confession in exchange for Uncle Lu and Al getting off. Maybe Bane’s lawyer is now available?

After breakfast, I page Gordon on the office phone.

But he doesn’t call back.

So I sit by the phone and just hang out.

Several customers come and go. Uncle Lu sends me to fetch what they want; one is after elements out of an old stove and another just wants every door knob we can get him.

It feels good, just being a person. I like being around Uncle Lu, helping him. This could have been my life.

… nah, it couldn’t have been. Batman feels too good.

The office door jingles as Gordon walks in. He pulls off his cowboy hat, places it over his chest, and drums his fingers on it while staring at me.

I expect thunder. Anger. But I see nothing but resignation.

Uncle Lu and I share a sad glance.

I walk around the counter and offer Gordon my wrists for him to cuff.

He glances down incredulously and scoffs. “What, you need me to smack you like a naughty toddler? Come on, Batman, we gotta talk.”

******************************************************************

Gordon had driven his personal vehicle to the yard, so that’s what he takes me into Gotham with. I’m pretty sure I’m not arrested, but I’m still nervous. Where are we going?

“I was never wanting to be a cop or a detective,” he says, window down and elbow out. “I just wanted to keep people safe and sound. Worked as a deputy for a while, spent some time working detention centers and came to the conclusion that not only were most people working there bullies but the whole system wasn’t working.”

We drive by Gotham’s courthouse as we head uptown. I realize he is taking me to Penguin tower. I had forgotten that he said I could check it out once everyone else had their turn.

“But you…” he continues. “might just have some detective chops in you.”

He actually means it.

Looking me in the eye, I see genuine worry. “Something ugly is happening in this city. Granted, there is a lot of ugly going around, but I want to show you something we found.”

Pulling into the tower’s garage, Gordon drives down to the lowest level and doesn’t even park the car. He just rolls it to a stop blocking the way, pulls the break, turns it off, and gets out.

At the bottom of the ramp is a vehicle gate, swung wide open, and tied back with police tape. Walking through, I see stacks of empty crates and toppled dollies everywhere.

“The Gotham PD would never have gotten a search warrant for the whole building, even if they knew it was here,” Gordon says, gesturing to the empty space. “They had a scale and a counter setup right there with over a ton of meth capsules boxed up, ready to go.” He points to an empty space. “And in that corner is where they sealed the chip bags.

Honestly, it just looks like a giant empty storage room to me.

“You need to understand, kid, that whatever else you’ve done… whatever heat you bring down, you landed the largest drug bust of Gotham’s history. If you hadn’t called me, whomever you might have called in Gotham PD would have just been paid off and let this slide. Penguin’s lawyers are now sweating bullets, and that phone you handed me will put Joker away for a century or more.”

Gordon is proud. I can tell on his face.

“This is the first time in years it feels good to be a part of the Justice System. Which is why…” he pulls out a notepad, flips it open, and reads something over. “Which is why I’m going to do something for you.”

Leading me to a steel door in the back of the concrete storage room, he punches in several numbers into a keypad that he reads off his notes. The door clicks and Gordon shoves it open.

Inside is a smaller room, damn near freezing. At its center is a horse-shoe shaped desk surrounded by monitors craning from the ceiling. It is the kind of computer setup you’d see on the cover of a science fiction novel at the Salvation Army. ‘Cyber Warfare’ or something like that.

The chair is one of those expensive gaming chairs and there are cans of soda everywhere. Pulling the chair out, I see three keyboards and three mice. The mousepads are all naked cartoon girls; odd hybrid people with bodies of women but faces of children.

I look to turn on the computer tower, but can’t find one.

From the open door, Gordon sees my struggle. “Gotham PD took the tower and the server as evidence. It was behind a thumb-print security system, so if we had the thumb we could tie the guy to the entire system. I also asked the tech guys some questions and wrote down their answers for you in my pad. Want me to read off the details they gave me?”

“Well, what did they find on the tower, first off?” I ask, my interest peaked.

“That was my first question, too. Aside from several terabytes of pornagraphy that would condemn any soul to the pits of hell, GCPD found hundreds of saved logins for dozens of radicalized forum accounts. A lot of illegal software designed to infiltrate other computer systems aggressively. I got the list, here, of the exact programs. Also, and most interesting was…” he pauses for emphasis. “an entire suite of footage and audio of you.”

I go pale, my skin prickling.

“Not of you, but of Batman. Batman. Footage of Batman. The guy is obsessed. Whomever ran this computer getup has you on their mind.”

Well, shit.

Gordon points to a bunch of black duffle bags stacked along the wall. “Next to the private bathroom, there, you’ll see the last big thing I got for you.”

Unzipping one of the bags, I pull out a bundle of black cloth masks. They are thin, easy to see through, and on the front of each one is a question mark. “This asshole,” I say, putting one of the masks in my pocket.

“Or at least a cohort of his.”

I shake my head. “No, this is Riddler himself. He wouldn’t share power with a computer setup looking like that. He’s got to be at the center, given the shape of his desk. And that private bathroom,” I gesture to the open door nearby. “has all new fixings. That sink is the same as one of the ones in the club. When he got this room to work out of he got a deal going with the building owner directly, or at least with building and maintenance, to have his own private refurbished bathroom. He also kept all of his private jerk-off material on the computer because he was certain no one would come through that door.”

Riddler was probably brilliant about encrypting his tracks online and securing himself through the internet, but he was shit at the real world. Which means he is likely young and grew up online. The keyboard is his conduit to power.

But if he isn’t here… if he got out fast enough… where would he be? Odds are someone like him has leverage over their boss as a security precaution. His boss, being someone high up at Penguin. Or even the owner, the fatcat in the lobby, which according to the papers, lives in this building just a few floors below the Iceberg Lounge.

“He in jail?” I ask. “the fat guy who owns this tower?”

Gordon shakes his head. “His money would never allow that.”

“And just to be clear, the person in this room… the manchild Riddler… we don’t know what he looks like?”

“Sorry, kid. That’s where the detective in you comes in.”

“Can you get me into the personal suite here? Cause that is where Riddler is hiding. He never left this building.” He’s farting into some silk couch and wiping his Cheeto fingers on it. It would make perfect sense that a rich fatcat would keep tabs on a high-risk asset like a conspiracy-weaving cyberterrorist.

Gordon shakes his head slowly. “No way can I get you near his front door.”

Walking away, Gordon heads back to his car. This is as far as he can take me on this. Despite being a sheriff of seemingly ironclad reputation, he can’t get me everywhere.

But Batman can.

*************************************************************

Gordon drives me down the street and lets me out. He clearly is nervous about being seen with me and I understand entirely. Thanking him for everything, he leaves me to wander downtown.

So I do. The sun is shining, people in business suits are hauling either briefcases or backpacks, and nearly everyone has an earpiece in their ear. Even dressed as a regular person, I’m easily invisible.

I purchase a coffee that costs too much and park myself on a bench across the street from Penguin Tower. The pricey coffee is okay, but Uncle Lu’s really is the best.

Sipping it slowly, I ruminate.

Batman can’t charge into this tower. There is armed security onsight twenty-four-seven. Maybe I could get in as a regular joe during the day and hide in a bathroom closet or something until after hours? But then, how do I get into the apartment suites? Knock?   
A guy like this fatcat likely has two whole floors for his personal suites, which means he’ll have a separate section for where the help stays.

And does he have a wife? Kids? A harem? I want as few people in the way as possible. Honestly, I don’t want to see another pregnant woman with Harley’s terrified expression. Ever.

And when I do get in, what do I do with this rich guy? How do I have him give up this twerp Riddler?

I bet he has a safe room. How do I keep him from running to his safe room?

It would be awesome if I had some idea of what the place looked like from the inside, but someone as showy as this would only let in someone he wanted to impress. The dude rocks a tophat, afterall. How could I get him to want to impress me?

Thinking backward, I try and see the big picture. Joker is a lower level meth producer, this Riddler guy handled the logistics of distribution, and a rich man like this housed the whole operation. Which leaves me with the ‘why’ of it all. Why would the richest man in the entire state house a risky operation of illegal drugs? Afterall, Penguin PLW Holdings owns several legal drug companies and those are just as profitable as meth. And why does he humor Riddler’s bonkers cult following? What is the entire end game, here?

All I know is that Riddler has zeroed in on me. He’ll figure out who I am and where I sleep eventually, if not soon. And then Uncle Lu and Al will be in danger. I… can’t let that happen to them.

Finishing my coffee, I hop the bus. I’m frustrated and scared, but I figure I need to step away for a moment. There is a place that has been on my mind for a while, now. A place I’ve been dreaming of going to again.

The Salvation Army.

And walking in, I see her there behind the counter. She spots me, her face passive, but as she looks back down to her register to finish the sale, she pulls her hair behind her lovely ear.

It’s her tell. It’s how I know she is happy to see me.

I wait patiently for her line to die down. Once it does, she closes her lane and eyes me expectantly.

“May I help you, sir?”

“I’m in the market for a plastic Transformer mask that changes my voice,” I say.

Her ear raises as she cracks a smile. “Yeah, yeah, yeah…”

She leads me through the store, but slowly. Almost a wander. Whether or not she is on break, she’s decided to take one. With me.

The transformer mask looks to be in decent shape. I poke at it’s workings and see that it takes double A batteries. The wiring looks clean and there is no corrosion.

“It will make you sound like Optimus Prime…” she warns me, her hands folded behind her as she rocks her shoulders enticingly.

“Is that uh… would that do it for you?”

She guffaws so loud that she startles a nearby customer.

“Good one,” she praises. “Wanna look around?”

Do I ever.

She shows me some of the most awful, gaudy things they have; velvet portraits, glossy figurines, leopard dresses, and a purple couch.

“It’s comfy!” she says, patting it with affection.

We swing by the record section and I fish out a Roger Whittaker Christmas Album. She’s baffled.

“Al likes Roger Whittaker,” I say.

“Well, it’s in good shape since it has only been listened to once a year at most.”

It is worth the dollar.

Escorting me back to her register, she rings me up.

I don’t want to go. It’s been maybe fifteen minutes tops, but I’ve been recharged just by hearing her voice.

“You uh, if you ever want… you can come by the Wayne Junkyard. I’ll make you pancakes. You can meet Al and Uncle Lucius officially,” I offer timidly. I don’t want to press, because she basically said ‘not now’ but I want her to know that I adore her.

She leans to her side on the register, showing off one of her marvelous hips. Yep, she knows exactly what she is doing.

“Breakfast? I’ll think about it.”

Oh, and so will I.

*************************************************************

I park myself in the Wayne Junkyard office and take apart the transformer voice mask. It’s nice to hang out with Uncle Lu as he handles the family business. Al comes in and out, fetching things for visitors or to complain about something that broke.

But the two men leave me be. At some point Uncle Lu slides a cup of tea under my nose. I grunt gratefully as I bust out the soldering iron and get to work on my Batman welding mask. It takes a while, but I manage to integrate the voice modulator from the toy into the side of my mask. Using some small speakers Al plucked out of a Honda, I make it so the volume can be cranked up if I need it to. I probably can be heard over gunfire or a large crowd with this setup.

Messing with the audio, I get my voice to sound nice and scary. I test it out when no customers are in the office.

“I’m Batman!” I say over and over again, adjusting it a bit each time. “I’m Batman. I’m Batman. I’m Batman? I’m Batman!”

I finally think I nailed it. A tiny bit of static scratches the ear just right, making my voice uncomfortable. It feels good making something work from nothing.

“Uncle Lu, would Penguin Tower have publicly available schematics?”

He thinks slowly. “For most of the utilities, sure.”

We’ll need those.

“What about the owner’s personal apartments. Would those be publicly available?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Probably not. Or, if so, it would be challenging. But why would you need those?” He asks. “Penguin Tower’s penthouse was just on TV recently. One of those ‘show off your pad’ shows that are so asinine.”

“Wait, what?”

“Whenever there is economic despair among the populace, shows like ‘Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous’ become popular. People want to daydream about what they will never have. Same for now. I don’t recall which show it was, but the Penguin’s entire suite was featured.”

I’m out of my chair.

“Where can I see this show?”

Through dinner and well into the night I watch the show on some streaming service over and over again. I first draw a basic outline of the plush apartments, and then I build one by cutting open and unrolling empty soup cans. The show was recorded a year ago, and I’m thinking Richie Rich had the whole place redone just for the show, so it will probably be the same layout still, furniture and all.

After I’m satisfied with the apartment layout, I plan a trip to the library to hunt for any publicly available schematics for the building I can find. Also, I’m going to need a cell phone jammer and I’m pretty sure the pawn shop has one in the special stock under the counter.

Reminds me, the owner of the place still hasn’t swung by to pick out what he wants for the ballistic shield. How the hell does he stay in business?


	9. Chapter 9

You can usually walk into the dredges of a building’s maintenance areas if you look like you belong there, especially if you are carrying a work bag that looks heavy. I even nod at a few guys I pass as I make my way back down to where all the police tape is. 

They don’t notice that my overalls lack an emblem.

Remembering the code Gordon punched in, I let myself into Riddler’s empty computer fortress. But I’m not here for the expensive monitors or the fancy gaming chair. I’m here for the bathroom sink.

Using the tools from my belt, I cut the caulking away and unfasten the sink. It’s heavy and I struggle to carry it out to one of the hand trolleys left behind from the seized meth. I take a moment to review all of my equipment to make sure I have everything.

I have my full Batsuit including helmet and basic armor and boots. I’ve got cord, tape, medical bandages, my battery-powered heating iron, and… my pruning shears.

And I’ve got the cell phone jammer in my bag, hooked up to a battery and humming away. Imported from China through some subtle means, the thing will kill all cell phone signals ranging to the floors above and below me. The pawn shop guy wouldn’t let me pay anything for it, claiming it would be ‘on my tab.’

That makes me a bit nervous.

But I’m already nervous.

Nobody dies.

Pushing the cart back out, I maneuver it to the maintenance elevator and wait. Twenty minutes go by and a guy working there, likely a general building and repair guy, walks around the corner and spies me waiting.

“Hey,” he says, eyeing the sink.

“Could you key me in? This is a sink to replace a busted one in the lounge. I just need a key for the elevator.” My gamble is that he knows the bathroom is wrecked from my earlier fight. I also hope that he doesn’t ride the elevator with me. Here’s hoping he is too busy to escort me.

He nods. “Yeah, let me call that in, just in case…” he fumbles with his phone for a few minutes. But what do you know, his signal isn’t working. It’s amusing in that he pretends to get a text. Nodding, he pulls his fab from his keychain and opens the door for me with a friendly smile.

“You’re a lifesaver,” I say, wheeling in. I keep the cart awkwardly positioned to discourage him from getting on. Once the door closes, I look over the buttons. According to what was publicly available for the tower’s schematics, I press the 24th floor for the personal apartments.

The elevator ride is brief. I steady my breathing, trying to center myself.

This will be the worst thing I’ve ever done.

Rolling out into a storage room, I see an older washer and dryer that had been replaced but not yet removed. The room also has wash basins, a nice wet vac, and the fuse boxes. It’s perfect with plenty of hiding places.

And this is what I do. Pushing the cart aside, I worm myself into a cabinet with my bag and sit tight. It is currently 10:34 am and I’ve got to hangout in this cramped spot until midnight. That is over thirteen hours of waiting.

I turn off the cell phone jammer and tuck in.

Time does not move quickly. Occasionally someone comes into the storage room. Through the ventilation slots in the cabinet I see a lanky man in a tuxedo pick up a screw driver or fetch several rolls of toilet paper but otherwise the room is silent.

I daydream of Selina in those boots and that plaid skirt. And the hoodie. And a bikini. And her birthday suit. I pretty much run through every lurid scenario I can fathom with her, and each ends up with me curled around her, kissing her shoulder, in my trailer.

How does she not get her hair caught on those earrings? Did she go to college? What is her last name? What are her parents like? She had hinted at abusive past relationships. I wish I could have rescued her. Not Batman, but me.

Nah, Selina wouldn’t need rescuing. And it would feel wrong to do so. It feels like, to rescue her, would steal her victory.

Does she have kids? Would she want kids?

Would my parents have liked her?

Heh, my parents would have loved her.

Thinking about where I am, what I’m about to do, I feel anxious again.

I don’t dare fall asleep because I’m a snorer. Nibbling at energy bars, I pass the time by sipping from my thermos and peeing in a ziplock freezer bag. You ever hold a bag of your piss? Holy smokes, it is warm. Like, super warm.

Eventually, after an eternity of sexual fantasies and random thoughts, my watch tells me it is almost midnight. I honestly can’t wait any longer.

The guy in the Tux hasn’t been by in over five hours, so I’m pretty sure I’m safe. Slowly I open the cabinet and contain my groan as I straighten up. Ugh. Way worse than a long car ride.

I switch the phone jammer back on but leave it in the bag. I can’t leave any tools behind, especially if they lead back to me or anyone I care about. I’ll be god-damned if the pawn shop guy gets pinched.

Next, I strip out of the overalls and strap on my Batsuit. I feel my power growing with each secured clasp and tightened strap. By the time I pull down my welding visor, I’m emotionally committed. I’m ready.

I am the scariest thing in this damn city.

Feds are afraid of me. ICE is afraid of me. Joker is locked up because of me. Bane respects me.

I am Batman.

Buckling my toolbelt, I take stock of my tools. The most important tool is there; the pruning shears.

Since the elevator will be my exit, I place my bag nearby with the active jammer inside. Then, pulling some wire cutters from my belt, I find the phone box and snip the lines for the house phones. Afterward, I open the fuse box and start rapidly pulling them out and tossing them across the room.

This penthouse is now under my control.

Switching on my red chest lamp, I give off an ominous, dark light in front of me. Time to go.

Exiting the storage room, I enter a massive kitchen. It’s bigger than my entire trailer with an array of pots and pans dangling from the ceiling, butcher’s knives mounted on the wall with magnetic strips, and dark appliances. He’s got four stovetops. There is a walk in freezer and everything is stainless steel, polished to a pristine shine.

Could you imagine? Being so rich that your kitchen could feed an entire school of kids? 

And oh, the butler is here. The lanky guy in the tuxedo, just standing in the dark waiting for me. When my red lamplight lands on him, he doesn’t even flinch.

Honestly, it is unnerving.

I pull a roll of industrial tape from my toolbelt.

“I’m not here for you…” I say through my transformed voice. “Sit in this stool here.” I pull out a steel stool at a breakfast bar and draw the tape out.

He doesn’t look intimidated. Or even fazed. What the hell is this?

Oh wait, he’s attacking. Oh shit!

Snatching a knife from the magnet strip on the wall, he flings it at me with such precision that it bounces right off my welder’s mask. I see his white gloves grab two more knives. Desperate, I pull down a cast iron pan.

It becomes a bladed game of tennis and he is serving. Knife after knife comes for me. I bonk them away clumsily. One buries into my chest armor, but I’m fine. Out of knives he charges, still silent. With his white gloves he chops away at me. I block and deflect each of his rapid hits, but I leave myself open in the race to keep up. He hammers my left underarm with astounding strength and my fingers tingle.

My god, this guy in the tux is going to kick my ass.

Swinging the pan like Thor’s hammer, I aim for his shoulder. Spinning on his heels, he dodgers and then roundhouses me in the head. The helmet takes it, but my vision jolts. He keeps coming with more tuxedo-fu, knocking my pan away. I try to grapple him but he is slippery, slapping away my groping hands each time.

I’m falling back. Losing ground to the butler from hell. Advancing against me, we parry in front of one of the stoves. I yank it open suddenly, surprising him with the metal door and bang the side of his knee.

He buckles. His sensei didn’t prepare him for that.

Not wasting a second, I stuff my fingers into the nearby toaster and hammer it into him over and over. I’m toastering him pretty good when I hear someone shout.

“Oswald?” an annoyed voice calls out from beyond the kitchen. A flashlight flickers in the round window of the kitchen door as someone approaches.

The tuxedoed freak rolls away from under me, using it as a distraction. Backing away, his fists raised, he eyes me over.

“Turn off your light. Hide and I’ll let you go, mate…” He has the kind of English accent you’d expect from a London gangster.

The kitchen door thumps. Someone is coming in.

I’m stupefied. But also intrigued. Besides, I can kick his ass afterward. So I duck behind the counter.

As soon as the flashlight hits him, the butler is standing perfectly with his hands folded behind his back. He’s not even out of breath. Courteously, he smiles into the blinding light. “Just about to check on the fuse box, Master Burgess.” His accent is now high-society. He could serve royalty.

Fatcat, peeking in, grunts. “Well, see to it. Someone messed up something and should be fired. Also, whoever is my phone carrier needs to be called. Call them. I was watching something on my phone and it lost service.”

“Of course, sir.” The butler bows.

Mollified, he retreats from the kitchen door and waddles off to wherever he was at rest.

I stand back up, and the butler instantly resumes his combat stance.

“Go now, and you were never here!” he snaps at me, back in his roguish accent.

But something begins to click with me. The owner of Penguin is ultrarich, and likely distanced from the ground workings of his wealth. This butler handles his phone service? I wonder if the butler also handles the maintenance crews? Maybe he was the one who gave Riddler the room downstairs? Not like the elite would be bothered to visit the deepest holes of his tower.

“I want Riddler, you tuxedoed freak!” I hiss at him.

I can’t tell what he is thinking in the dark, but his body is deftly still.

I continue. “Fine. I’ll just go ask your boss for him…” Walking toward the door, Oswald the butler rushes after me.

“No! No…” He flails. “All right. But, you must dispose of the body.”

“Wait, he’s dead?” A part of me is relieved. I won’t have to use the pruners.

But the butler shakes his head. “Not yet. I know who, well, I don’t… but I know what you are. That Batman lad. The spanner in the gears.”

“What gears?” I rear up on him. He’s tough, but I want him to see I’ve got as much fight in me as I need for his scrawny ass. “Spill your guts in three sentences. I want to know about meth, Riddler, all of it. All the way to the top.”

In the dark I see the reflection of his eyes. They flicker toward the kitchen door nervously. “I parked Riddler’s operation here for safety. When you compromised it, I took him upstairs to here. He’s in the safe room.”

So that’s it. This butler is the badguy. He runs the whole operation, using Penguin’s finances.

“And why don’t I take you, too? Turn you in to your boss right now?”

A wiry smile bends across Oswald’s face in the dark. “Oh, but Penguin Holdings is not my true employer. I answer to someone far more imposing. If you get Riddler out of here, eliminate him as my problem, you’d be saving me a lot of trouble. And I’ll even tell   
you whom I work for.”

Wait, he’d give up his employer that fast? “Bullshit,” I say.

He snorts with amusement. “My employer has been eying you over, the Batman, since you first appeared. Riddler was employed to rile up Gotham, but he can only motivate the crazies and the mentally worthless given his conspiracy-laden nonsense. But you…” He waves a white-gloved finger at me. “You are a lad that gets attention. Like my employer. Tell you what, mate… I give you Riddler so long as you agree to a meeting with my boss. An interview of sorts. He’d love that. He’d give up the whole meth operation for that.”

I’m completely confused. “You’re going to let me just carry Riddler out of here?”

He nods.

“And then, what, give me your boss’s phone number?”

Oswald reaches into his coat and draws out a perfect, black rectangle. It has no print on it whatsoever. “Come to the back door of Gotham’s art museum tomorrow night. Hold this up. And you’ll meet him.”

“Sounds like an ambush.”

“It’s the terms of receiving Riddler.”

“And what if I just take Riddler and no-show?”

“I trust your word,” Oswald says. “Keep in mind that my employer would be inconsolable for being disappointed that you wouldn’t show for a simple interview.”

Interview?

Enough. Enough questions. This is dragging on. “I’m going back for my bag, but then take me to Riddler.” I stuff the black card into my pocket. “I’ll think about Tuesday later.”

With a sweeping gesture, he leads me deeper into the dark of the apartments. Far down the hallway behind us, I hear grumbling. The fatcat is still messing with his phone trying to get a signal.

The place, even in the dark, sparkles with absurd amounts of gold leaf and crystal. What little light comes in from the windows travels all over through the chandeliers and white silk carpets.

I wish my boots were muddy.

“Here, Batman…” Oswald walks me into a guest room.

It feels oddly validating having a guy I just fought call me Batman. Bane did, too.

He pulls on a light fixture. One of the mirrored walls slides open to reveal a small room with a couch and tiny bathroom. There is a screen on the wall and it is on, filled with colorful images of Japanese cartoon girls all arguing with some bland looking boy. 

Seems the safe room has its own fuse box somewhere.

The guy on the couch looks at Oswald. “I didn’t call you,” he says flatly. Slumped in a tshirt with some obscure mascot on it, he raises his hand and dismisses the butler. “Away with you.”

Oswald steps back, letting me in.

So, instead of gasping or turning pale like I’d expect, this Riddler guy flat out vomits at the sight of me. Spews his SpaghettiOs right onto the lovely carpet that Oswald is likely going to have to clean up.

After retching, he stands on the couch like I’m a mouse to be avoided. “Fucking Butler! Simp-tard! You betrayed me!”

“Edward, I was contemplating carrying you out of here in a bucket, one chunk at a time. Fortunately, Batman will take you whole,” Oswald still maintains his crisp, high society accent. Seems I’m the only guy worthy of his real voice. “Be grateful.”

I step in and drop my bag at my feet.

Riddler is now standing on the armrest.

I brought my pruning shears here to cut off all his fingers and his tongue. I know ‘nobody dies’ is what I promised. I do. But the plan was only to get me in and out of the apartments. 

My god, I was so close to pinning my knee against the center of his back, hogtying him, and snipping off each digit one at a time. That’s why I brought the heating iron, to cauterize the wounds. I would have walked out of here, his fingers and tongue flushed down the toilet, the remaining lumps of his hands bandaged. He would never have touched a keyboard again. And no computer’s voice software would have worked for him.

I never expected to leave with Riddler. This way I can just haul him to Gordon. This twerp has no idea how lucky he is.

I lunge for him and he screeches. He’s clearly never been in a fight before. Granted, I’m sure he’s played a lot of fighting games, but he is soft all over and I overwhelm him instantly.

A knee to his gut drops him, bringing him to choking sobs. He vomits again, and I look to Oswald, expecting the butler to be upset.

But uh… I’m pretty sure he is getting off on this. Maybe it is just Riddler taking a beating, or maybe Oswald the butler is a sadist. Either way, I am creeped out enough to make this fast.

Slamming the hacker into his own pool of puke, I bind his arms and legs with cord. A sock and some tape make an adequate gag for him. He’s not particularly heavy; just flabby skin on bone. No muscle means he’s awkward to hoist over my shoulder, but not too stressful on my back.

My bag in one hand, asshole over my shoulder, I nod at Oswald.

“Elevator,” I say.

He blocks my way politely, hands behind his back. “Gotham Museum. Tomorrow night. Black card.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

He nods. “Hold up the card and tell them Penguin sent you.”

*************************************************************

Digging out Riddler’s phone, I hold it up to his face to unlock it. High tech, indeed. We’re sitting at Riddler’s computer desk in his little nerd bunker in the basement of Penguin Tower.

Gordon doesn’t answer, so I leave a message.

“Got Riddler, thumbs included. Come link him to all that fun computer crime you got on him.” I hang up, and tape the phone to the wall where it can be easily seen. I use the industrial tape, so nothing short of a chainsaw will get it down. There might be more evidence on it, afterall.

Then I tie the little whimpering rat to his expensive chair. I make sure to leave him a bit of room so he can breath, because as always, nobody dies.

“You touch a keyboard again,” I say through my wicked voice modulator, “and I’ll use these…” I show him the shears. “And take your fingers and thumbs off. Do we have an understanding?”

Desperately, he nods. I take the Riddler mask out of my pocket and pull it over his head.

Stepping outside, I seal the room behind me and change back into my overalls. Wandering through the garage and onto the street, it is almost two am so I pull the homeless thing and flop on a bench across from the brass penguin. I use my bag as a pillow, and after scarfing down another energybar, I shiver myself to sleep.

Gotham is turning cold early this year.

It’s Gordon that wakes me up with the sunrise. He’s got a coffee for me.

“Good morning, detective…” he says with a smile, tipping his cowboy hat. It is an odd look to sport so proudly in downtown Gotham, but you can’t take the midwesterner out of Gordon, apparently. Besides, he is a sheriff.

I give him a groggy thanks and sip gingerly. “Get him?”

“We’re still trying to pry him loose from that damned chair. Been almost an hour.”

I snicker. “Spent his whole life in that chair…”

We both eye the brass penguin over while enjoying the sunrise.

“We still might not be able to tie much to Penguin’s management or owner, Mr. Burgess” Gordon says apologetically. “We’d pretty much have to catch him holding a smoking gun.”

I’m not sure of his level of… involvement. “Give it time,” I say. “I’ll keep digging. But watch his butler closely.”

I think of the black card in my bag, and the Gotham Museum tonight.

*************************************************************

“Riddler is all done,” I announce at breakfast later that morning at the spool table.

Al and Uncle Lu look confused.

“Police have him. He’s toast.”

Uncle Lu shakes his head. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that…”

Al chimes in. “Yeah, kid. Lenin died and his little cult just got worse.”

I sigh. “So… are you saying there is no victory? I mean, come on. We’ve gotten rid of meth in the region, rescued innocent people, and shut down a cultist leader!” The lack of sleep has me grumpy.

“Kid, that cult might be even more dangerous without its head to steer it.”

Holding up the paper, Uncle Lu seems to agree. “Edward Nigma’s arrest made the local news, but I’m almost scared to look at the online response of Riddler’s fanbase. None of them even knew who he was. They can just dismiss it, claiming he isn’t the real Riddler.”

So someone else is going to take his place.

What is the point?

I sulk in silence. I don’t even finish my coffee. Out-waiting Al and Uncle Lu, they eventually leave me to go and tend to the yard. The yard with my name on it.

Am I a pampered child? Am I a spoiled brat, indulged by his family too much because they pity me?

Intending to prove Al wrong, I storm into the office and watch the news. Not the real news, but the shitty news where everyone has a bullhorn and just screeches sentences online. You know, Twitter and stuff like that. Memes are the preferred expression, adding a mystifying visual code on top of their cryptic language.

I search terms and phrases for Riddler. ‘Riddler me this’ and ‘Riddle-drop’ and ‘Batman blood libel’ and eventually come across a lot of these little cultists sharing messages with each other, sometimes in completely random posts. I click my way down the rabbit hole, like an explorer in a dive bell sinking into an ocean of diarrhea.

There are four new people claiming to be Riddler. New Riddle-drops are hitting. And there is chaos. This could actually be good because if this cultist movement splits, they might dissolve.

But then they go full-on cypher. I can’t even recognize what they are typing as English. Hundreds of them are doing an odd call and response.

And then silence. Total, utter silence. A few still chirp, but the topic seems to disappear just as fast as it came.

This feels so, so much worse.

******************************************************************

A police station burning is the first thing we see on the news.

Al, Uncle Lucius, and me are all crowded around the laptop. The newsfeed is scrolling so fast we can’t read it as the internet blows up. Tens of thousands of people are in the streets. Some are violent, most are protesting, but all are vulnerable when the kevlar thugs arrive.

By nightfall the president makes good on his threats, charging in with unmarked riot troops. They’ve got shields that don’t even say police on them as they kick and stomp their way through the protesting, raging, or fleeing people of Gotham. These troops don’t discern. If you are breathing and within arm’s reach, you are getting your teeth knocked out.

I watch them shoot people with riot guns in the back, stomp people on the ground as they beg, and smack away peaceful people as they try and plead with them. Vicky Vale is running around, avoiding gas clouds, flares, and burning cars. She’s composed, her voice is steady, but she is clearly unnerved. The woman never intended to be a war reporter.

One of the Federal riot guys grabs her by the hair. The last thing the camera sees is the impacting end of a club.

I’m out of my chair, running for the Batcave. Al is behind me.

“I’m making sure yer gassed up!” he says.

Uncle Lu is on our heels with the cellphone jammer. “Keep this under the seat,” he says. “Everyone’s got a camera out there. Let’s keep your exposure down as much as we can.”

“I still owe the pawn shop for that,” I say through my teeth as I rip off my overalls and reach for my Batsuit.

“No, you don’t, kid.” Al is all smiles.

It occurs to me that he paid for the ballistic shield. And the jammer. God damnit, Al.

I go a little misty eyed. He and Uncle Lu notice and both men walk over to me. We get a group hug going. I can feel their pride and love as Uncle Lu pats my back and Al tustles my hair.

“Nobody dies,” Uncle Lu says.

“Nobody dies.” I strap on my boots, build Batman once again over my body. Al does a quick check of the Batmobile and secures the jammer.

Everything is a go.

I climb in, rumble the W12 awake, and flip down my mask.

“Go save Gotham!” Al yells.


	10. Chapter 10

The Batmobile roars like a red-eyed lion, shaking the windows of the concrete jungle that is Gotham’s Southside. I pass an overturned compact car and groups of people in PPE chatting with flashlights. Few cars are on the street because the smart people stay home.

Several stragglers cheer as I speed by, their phones high, but I see them poking at their devices in frustration in the mirror as I tear through the street.

It is obvious there has been some rioting, but I mostly see peaceful protestors. Seems if there was rage in them, it is spent. Many of them nurse head wounds and weep on the sidewalks as they splash their eyes with water.

I can see how the escalation occurred. The national outrage over police brutality has hit a tipping point, especially if it is racially fueled. So the people took to the streets all over the country. And the police came, and two swarming crowds of fools, one broken-hearted and the other overtaxed and racist, clashed.

And Riddler’s people strike, delighting in the chaos. They burn police cars and amplify everything they can.

I see a few of the question-marked headcovers, splashing every window they see with hammers. I realize how right Al was. I’m always going to be stamping out these little fuckers. But right now there is an occupying force in my city, and they must learn that is something Batman will not abide.

This is my town.

On the news I saw the brass penguin down the street from Vicky Vale as she was dragged off camera by her hair. I know where the epicenter of the abuse is, so I head towards Gotham’s uptown district. The pristine stretch of themed cocktail bars and expensive restaurants. Where poor people like me serve the food they can’t afford.

There are police cruisers up ahead. I ponder if I should gun it, and just barrel through, but they spot my red headlights. Guns rise for a moment, but then lower again. The cops all look at each other until a weathered sergeant steps out, waving me forward.

Maybe he thinks… I’m an actual tow truck?

Slowly, I roll up. He eyes over the Batmobile. It’s clear he recognizes it. Approaching my door, he motions for me to roll down a window. He clearly doesn’t get that the tiny window in my ballistic shield-door isn’t something that moves.

Do I risk it? Do I open this door a crack to talk to a cop? A cop that certainly has orders to pounce on me for embarrassing them on national TV when they abused citizens? Hell, I kicked one in the ass. I still have his gun.

Yeah. Yeah, I do risk it. They haven’t fired at me and I’m getting a promising… conspiratorial vibe.

I crack the door open. Through my mask I decide to be all cheeky.

“Is there a problem, officer?”

It’s what Al said a boy like me should say to the police if I’m ever pulled over. That and to keep both hands on the wheel.

The weathered sergeant leans in. He’s of mixed ethnicity, like me. Maybe with some hispanic.

“Get these assholes out of our city,” he demands.

Gotham. We have problems. Serious, deep-rooted problems of ugly inhumanity that reflect the nation as a whole. Apathy and the permittance of evil have rotted us to our core.

But we still are a city. With an identity. And the president screeches that we are thugs when he sends his own thugs into town, pulling our reporters about and beating our mothers and sons.

While regulating the GCPD to just wall the area off. The police are just sitting here at the outskirts of downtown, sealing off a section of the playground for the militarized, nameless enforcers to do with us as they will. To send a message to other cities to demand they submit.

Submit to police brutality? Submit to families being torn?

“Just get as many people to safety as you can,” I say with my distorted voice. “And keep out of my way.”

He nods, satisfied. With a raise of his hand, the police clear the barricades for me to roll on through. I secure the door and as I nudge the gas, I see that the cops are all watching me.

We’ll fight again. I’ll kick more of them in the ass. But for tonight, at least, they are on Gotham’s side.

Behind me they close up ranks, shifting about nervously.

And I gun it. The Bentley engine roars within as the Batmobile declares the city as its own. I’m doing almost fifty when I see the first bearcat truck, its back open. A few of the president’s bullies are mewling about. They are fatter than most police, bigger. They have no badges, random velcro skulls on their alice gear, and their shields are electrified with taser packs. They remind me of the hulking guards at the detention center when I was a kid, as if the President went to the federal prisons and asked for the meanest, most racist fuckers they had on offer.

Someone told them they are the authority.

No.

Batman is the authority.

And I show it by blaring the horn as I ram the bearcat, ripping its front off, and spinning it about. It’s just a Ford, anyhow. Just like all these guys, it is a flabby and simple thing wearing too much costume.

I’m going to tear that costume right off.

But a giant bullet hole punches through my windshield, scaring the piss out of me. Then another, much closer to my head. They’ve got a massive rifle on the rooftops, plugging away. An M82 or something.

I swerve a bit to dodge. Another round tinks off of the roof.

Up ahead I see the swarm. Vicky Vale and her crew are handcuffed face down, boots on their backs. People of all varieties; fat, skinny, old, and young of every ethnicity have been surrounded and are being pummelled and dragged by the nameless legion. The gestapo bastards haven’t even used tear gas. They probably don't want to wear gas masks and run short of breath while beating their victims.

A fourth bullet punches into the passenger door. If someone had been there, like Al or Selina, they’d be dead.

I hammer the horn some more, giving everyone in the melee, victim and attacker alike, pause. Swerving the Batmobile around I just leave it running as I charge out, the ballistic door sliding off its mount with me.

Like a rogue elephant, I plow into the jackboot pricks. I yank my crowbar from my belt and crack the helmet of the nearest one. Then I shatter the teeth out of another with my shield. I hope to get them off of Vicky and others. To buy everyone a reprieve.

And snipers can’t shoot me in this melee.

But unlike the cops, these guys pile onto me. They don’t back down. They came here for violence and are hungry for what I’m offering.

I snap-kick one’s knee in and he rolls over.

“I am Batman!” I roar, my mask volume maxed. “Gotham is mine!”

They keep coming. Two grab my shield, but I slam it down into the street and break some fingers. Another reaches for my welding visor, but I headbutt him. The bat ears at the top tear a gash out of his arm.

Every ounce of me, every bit of rage and hurt and anguish and shame distill into nitro flowing through my veins. My heart pounds it all directly into my knuckles.

But it isn’t enough. I’m only a man. They are climbing on my back. A few are as big as me. One has his arms wrapped around my leg like a playful toddler. The straps of my shield are close to giving.

A gloved hand covers my visor.

I’m going down. A rain of blows comes at me. Baton after baton cracks into me. Something breaks in my bicep. My ankle bends wrong and numbing pain shoots up my leg to my hip.

At least they are beating me. I’d rather it be me than the people. Are the cops getting the people clear? Is this enough of a distraction to get the people clear? Is Vicky Vale safe? Is her camera crew safe?

I’m on the ground now, curled up. My shield is torn away. They are huffing and snarling and pounding. I’m a railroad spike, and they are the crew driving me into the ground.

It occurs to me that this is what I’ve always wanted, since that night at the drive in. I wanted to be on the floor, destroyed, like Mom and Dad. I belonged there with them. Here, maybe they will beat me to death, and I’ll finally be where I belong. It was my fault, after all. If I was with them maybe Chill wouldn’t have pulled a gun. Maybe a kid would have given him pause.

I feel my muscles ease and just let the pounding happen. This is it. I’m ready.

But then one pulls away. Then another. And another. The last two scream as something in the night hoists them in the air and hurls them.

Above me is Bane, the glorious luchador. Behind him his boys are grappling with the thugs, tearing their armor off and clubbing them with their own weapons. “Mi amigo!” He declares. “Thank you for revealing the sniper locations for us. Once we handled him, we could come out.”

Before he can lift me up, another unmarked fed charges him. In a singular, graceful motion Bane snags him by the kevlar, lifts the man over his head, and brings his back down upon his knee.

It is the single most vulgar display of raw physical power I have ever witnessed. I am glad not to be on the receiving end of it.

Bane then offers me his hand. “My friend, come!”

I take his grip in mine and he hoists me up. A rib is floating on its own and I’m certain my left arm is broken. He sees how badly I’ve been beaten. “I will help you to your truck…”

He has to drag me. Neither of my legs can handle my weight. He puts me on the passenger side since it is clear I can’t drive. “Hold there, we can’t leave yet. My luchadors need me.” He can’t see me blink an affirmative, but he takes off to rejoin the brawl anyhow.

So I sit here, listening to it all. Wondering if I did right tonight, if anything I did was of use. I’m probably going to end up in jail, and be in the news. Would Vicky Vale interview me? Would she do a piece on me, telling Gotham I’m just a stupid guy who did his best?

Mom? Dad? I know being Batman was never smart, but was it right? It felt right. Is it over? Is this as far as it goes? I’m sorry I’m not with you. I’m sorry I asked for curly fries.

Selina climbs into the driver side of the truck. The shield door is still missing, so the cat ears of her hood are silhouetted from the fires of the riot. She shifts the Batmobile into reverse and carefully pulls back, watching the side mirror.

Nobody dies. And that includes running anyone over.

“Can you drive shift?” I ask. Her actually being here hasn’t sunk in yet. Is this another fantasy of mine? Did I have this one in the storage locker in Penguin Tower?

She looks at me like I’m an asshole and shifts into first gear. Her driving isn’t nearly as aggressive and flamboyant as mine. The Batmobile seems to like how she shifts a little better, honestly. It’s smoother.

“Don’t worry about the police,” I say. But am I right? Did they let me in just to catch me on my way out?

No. Turns out they are busy wrangling the fleeing civilians out of the downtown combat zone. None of them even care about the black, armored tow truck with bullet holes in the windshield.

“Give me directions,” she commands once we are clear of the barricade.

I grunt and point while we navigate the empty Gotham streets since talking is hard. I think my jaw might be fractured. The wind whistles through the bullet holes and I laugh at it, delirious from pain and head trauma. It’s all a dull blur. But I direct her through the secret entrance behind the billboard at the back end of the yard. 

Al and Uncle Lu are waiting as we pull up. Al’s got his medical supplies ready and a cot setup. Uncle Lu is wringing his hands.

They see the shield is gone and Selina is driving. “Other side!” she yells.

Opening my door, both men gasp. Al puts a neck brace around my collar before the two men move me to the cot.

“We saw on TV. One of Vicky Vale’s crew got it on camera from up the street. The whole fight,” Uncle Lu says as he tears open my armor.

It must have been a zoom lens, out of range from my jammer.

“I… I lost my shield,” I feebly whimper to Al. He bought it. It was the nicest thing I had. I lost it.

“Whelp, yeh got a broken arm and when I set it, yeh might also lose yer lunch, kid.” That is the only warning I get before he tugs my arm hard from my socket and sets the bone. I’m so shocked I don’t even have the air to scream.

Next, Al cuts off my boots as Uncle Lu lifts my face shield and checks my eyes for shock or concussion.

Tiredly, I flop back onto the cot. Selina unbuckles my chinstrap and pulls my helmet free. I can see her clearly now. She’s got a black eye and her face is covered with soot, but her smile is as delicious as ever.

Leaning down, she kisses my forehead. I want to tell her not to. I want to tell her she is right about me and my knuckles. That I’m hateful, and filled with rage and self destruction. I almost sheared off a man’s fingers and tongue.

But I don’t have the energy to speak as Al rolls a bandage around my ankle. “Yeh rolled it pretty bad, but all in all yeh gonna be fine, kid.” He lovingly shakes the toe of my remaining boot. “Let’s get yeh into a bath.”

“I got him,” Selina says, struggling to hoist me off the cot.

Uncle Lu steps forward to assist, but Al stops him with a hand to the chest. I can see the delight in the codger’s eyes.

“Yeh just let us know if yeh need anything, miss. We’ll serve up breakfast in the morning.”

She nods. “I was promised pancakes,” she smiles at me.

We stumble up my trailer stairs, through the excuse of a living room, down the hall, and into the bathroom. Dad had torn out the vinyl bathtub that came standard with trailers, and put in a big pourcelan one with feet and everything. As a kid I used to hear them in here, giggling, as he washed her hair.

Selina leans me against the wall and runs the tub. Testing the water, she adjusts the knobs until she is happy. Then she squirts shampoo in so it gets bubbles. I used to love bubble baths. I had a toy rubber shark that would attack Lego boats.

Gently, she strips me. I watch her watching me, evaluating my muscle and my squishier bits. I don’t have chiselled abs or anything. But she doesn’t flinch or smile, just tenderly peels off each chunk of reeking, sweat-soaked armor.

Supporting me under the arm, she guides my naked self into the tub. Slowly, we ease me down into the bubbles. My god, it is so perfectly warm. She washes me, occasionally sneaking a tiny kiss in on my temple.

And eventually my lips. A delicate, perfect kiss. “You need rest,” she purrs, pulling away.

We dry me. I feel amazing despite the pain, but I am almost ready to pass out from exhaustion. Supporting me, we go to the bedroom. Oh god, the bed has never been made ever and I’ve got books strewn everywhere and empty glasses of water on the nightstand.

But she doesn’t care. She just tucks me in. It’s clear she won’t be undressing with me. Her hoodie is even still on. Yet when she climbs into bed next to me and curls her back into me… my god, it is home. The trailer feels like a home again.

I flop on my side, my busted arm delicately around her perfect waist. I tug her a little closer, and kiss the back of her neck.

“Thank you for rescuing me,” I whisper before falling asleep. And I don’t just mean it to her, I mean it to Bane and Al and Uncle Lu and all of Gotham.

******************************************************************

I wake with the sun slicing through the yellowing plastic blinds. In the night, Selina took off her hoodie and shoes but she is still curled next to me, buried in pillows, fast asleep. Rolling the comforter over her, I wrap her into a snuggly burrito before quietly slipping on some boxers.

I’ve never had to be quiet in this room before. This, I can get used to.

Limping into the kitchen, I light the stove and get to cooking pancakes like I promised. I want the smell to wake her, just like in a sappy commercial.

It’s slow going with one good arm. Stirring the batter up, my phone suddenly rings. I forgot about the thing because I never use it and it startles me. Yanking it from the wall mounted receiver, I annoyedly whisper “Hello?”

“Uh, Bruce… there is someone here to see you.”

“Gordon?”

“No… someone else. He uh, he’s pulling around to your trailer. I could have tried to stop him, but he seems the type to persist. He’s polite but uh…”

I hear the gravel out front crunch with the approach of a vehicle.

Hanging up the phone, I rush to the stove and turn down the burners. I’m making pancakes here, damnit. If it isn’t Gordon then who is it?

I can’t risk walking back into my bedroom for a shirt and socks, it would definitely wake Selina. So I opt to go full trailer-park and open my front door in my boxers.

It’s a black, long limo. A traditional looking one. I expect the driver to come out, but it appears the passenger in the back is able to exit it all by himself like a big boy. My guest is handsomely dressed with soft eyes and a groomed beard. I recognize him as the councilman from the news that Vicky Vale was interviewing. Councilman Ra’s, was it?

He nods politely at me. I was hoping to scare off whomever with my marvelous dogbone boxers, but he is unfazed.

Approaching, I can tell he is eyeing my kaleidoscope of bruises and welts from last night. My arm is still stiff, but I try not to coddle it into my side.

“Mr. Bruce Wayne. It is my honor to meet you in the flesh, sir.” He says it genuinely. The councilman means it, but I still know when I’m being sized up.

I gimp down the trailer steps and walk to him. The gravel hurts, but the bottoms of my feet are like leather and I want to smell this guy.

And uh… he honestly smells terrific.

“What can I do for you?”

He gives a slight bow, but then offers his hand in a more traditional greeting. My right shoulder hurts as I try to raise it to him, so he waits patiently as my hand finds his. His grip is firm, but he doesn’t do the little shake that men do.

“I’d like to extend to you, in person, how impressed I am both with your will and your detective abilities,” he starts.

Oh no. OH NO. This is the guy. He’s the boss of the Penguin ninja, and subsequently the whole chain down including Joker and Riddler. The city councilman? But why? How could-

Then it snaps into place. Next year is the mayoral election. This fucker has caused so much chaos through proxy that the current mayor’s popularity is on fire. Ra’s sunk meth and viral conspiracy dogma so effectively into Gotham that it will be begging for him. And since he delivered the diseases, he can most effectively deliver the treatments.

My god, he’s a monster.

Even without a broken arm, I wonder if I could take him. There is something dangerous about this man’s gentle posture. And as I ponder my chances of making him eat gravel, the limo’s driver side door opens. Out steps the Penguin in a conservative black suit and chauffeur's cap. He winks at me and walks to the trunk of the limo to fetch something.

It’s my ballistic shield.

Ra’s extends his palm toward it. “A gift, I return this to you. Astounding how the simplest tools are often the best, yes?”

“Like lies and deception? Tools to be the mayor of Gotham?”

Ra’s nods as he hoists the shield from Penguin’s gloved hands.

“Mayor is the start, Mr. Wayne. I hope to have you present through my entire journey. Police can be bought and corralled, politicians can be blackmailed and citizens intimidated… but then there is you. Batman. The man who pulls so hard on a loose thread that the entire sweater becomes a pile of worthless yarn.”

He hands me the shield. With my good arm, I take it. “I’m going to bring you down,” I snarl.

Unflinching, he nods. “Do your best. I need someone worthy to make me earn my power. And the chaos you’ve incited has aided me astoundingly, for which I am grateful. But worry not, Mr. Wayne. Never will I harm your loved ones or invade your domain.” He gestures at the junkyard around him, but it isn’t sarcastic. The man sees this as my turf. “This is my only visit given we couldn’t meet last night.”

With a wave of his hand, Penguin returns to the limo, holding the door for his master.

“You’re a madman…”

Ra’s shakes his head. “I am neither a zealot or a madman. I am Ra’s al Ghul and you shall be seeing much of me.”

Stepping away, he returns to his limo. The Penguin shoots me a grin after the door closes. He looks forward to our rematch.

As they pull away, I find myself gripping my battered, bloody shield like a teddy bear. This isn’t a meth dealer or a clutist hacker. I am in way, way over my head.

And so is Gotham.

But Batman is here, and he will defend to the last.

**Author's Note:**

> Cover art by Nate Taylor. Check him out at https://www.natentaylor.com/
> 
> Want more of me? Join my mailing list at https:// williamLJgalaini.com
> 
> If you like, buy me a coffee at https://ko-fi.com/galaini


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